Loyalties Undying
by LittleFireDragon
Summary: This is the story of a Pyrotechnician trying to find her place in the misogynistic world of the 1960s; her interactions with her secret-keeper and best friend, the team's Sniper; and her role in the conflict at Mann Co, as she struggles with her own identity and mysterious past, which may or may not be interwoven with that of the Medic. But sometimes, secrets just slip out…
1. An Unlikely Friendship

"_**Well-behaved women seldom make history." – Laurel Thatcher Ulrich**_

_Author's note: Yes, I am aware Meet the Medic doesn't take place in 2fort. I'm also aware that the sniper bunker doesn't have doors, but I've included them anyway. Also, my version of 2fort isn't surrounded by a chainlink fence. These are all small changes I've made for the sake of narrative. So, without further ado, Loyalties Undying. Enjoy._

* * *

She couldn't take it much longer. The isolation, the fear, everything. Her own teammates were afraid of her, and it showed. They cowered away from her, and some were openly cruel. She'd become mostly numb to their cutting remarks, but some still hit home. All she was trying to do was help them.

At the moment, she was trying to lend her aid to the Scout, who, of course, didn't want her help. He flinched away as though she had the plague, his silver eyes shining with fear and hate at the same time. Did he really think he could go up against BLU on his own? He was going to get the crap beaten out of him! Her thoughts were interrupted by one of those horrible comments, the ones that still cut to her soul.

"Stay away from me, you freak! No, you know what? Just go drown yourself under the bridge! Solve a few problems. Nobody'll miss ya, creep. You just drag us down." And then he took off running.

The Pyro stood there, dumbstruck. Her gut felt like a cold pit of emptiness. And yet, she wasn't surprised. This was how they treated her. She honestly couldn't blame them; she _must_ seem freakish, always wearing the fire suit and gas mask, never saying anything intelligible through the filter. All they ever saw of her was a nameless, voiceless, faceless maniac with a flamethrower. She was okay with the last bit, but the first half tore her apart. She longed to speak to someone; to share her secret. Just to have some human contact. She was _not_, however, willing to give up her life for it – and that's precisely what she knew would happen if anyone knew anything about her. No, they wouldn't kill her – probably – but her life would be over all the same. She'd be relegated to a kitchen or a second-rate job with a bulletproof glass ceiling hanging just above her. She refused to be banished to such a world. She'd sooner go mad from isolation as a mercenary than from frustration as a housewife. She figured it was better to have no literal voice than to be able to speak and have no voice in the world anyway.

So, she persevered. She had to be strong. Even if she wasn't proving anything to anyone else, she had to prove _to herself_ that she was strong enough to last in Teufort. Her namesake had led an army, so she, Joan, would at least prove herself as a mercenary. This, she was determined to prove. She _wanted_ to fight alongside these men. She only wished that she could do so openly, as Joan, instead of Pyro.

Joan was snapped out of her contemplation by the sounds of combat. She pressed the trigger of her flamethrower momentarily, checking that it wasn't jammed, and then rushed to join the fray.

* * *

The Medic continued to talk as he worked. He found that letting himself chatter on helped his ability to focus. "So," he said, "zhis former… _S.S. Officer_" he spat the words like they left a foul taste in his mouth, with a corresponding expression of disgust, "zhinks somehow it's a good idea to _insult_ zhe doctor for his opposition to zhe Nazis. Zhen, he calls him a _spineless coward_. Can you imagine zhe _stupidity?_"

The Heavy laughed heartily, drowning out the sound of cracking glass as the Scout smacked into the window. The Russian continued to listen attentively, waiting for the punch line. Whatever was going to happen to the Nazi, he obviously had it coming, and it would most likely be ironic.

The Medic grinned. "Wait, wait, it gets better! When zhe patient woke up, _his skeleton was missing!_ And zhe doctor was never heard from again!" He laughed gleefully. The Nazi bastard had deserved it for what he'd done. The German's smile faded as he continued. "Ah, anyway… Zhat's how I lost my medical license."

The Heavy suddenly looked worried, but any questions were swiftly put aside as Archimedes the dove decided to interrupt the conversation by landing inside the man's abdominal cavity.

"Archimedes, no! It's filzhy in zhere!" the Medic said as he shooed the bird away.

* * *

The Pyro blocked the Engineer's wrench with the strongest tube in her flamethrower, darted to the side, and tried to light him on fire. He backpedaled out of the way, trying to switch to his shotgun. He could feel the heat of the flames singeing the hairs on his arms. Neither one of the combatants could see too well through the cloud of dust they were kicking up or the roaring flames that raged between them.

The Sniper watched through his scope, waiting for an opening to attack, but it became increasingly clear to him that he wasn't going to get an opportunity to line up a headshot, so he tried the next best thing; he fired at the first patch of blue clothing he saw through the chaos. The BLU engineer let out a cry of pain and his shotgun fired in a random direction as his left arm went limp. At this point he retreated, and Joan gave chase, still running her flamethrower in front of her like an angry, fire-breathing dragon. When it became clear to her that she wouldn't be able to catch him, as he disappeared back into his base, she stopped to catch her breath and turned to locate her ally. She caught a glimpse of him, hiding behind a piece of corrugated metal, and waved. He didn't respond – he'd just been doing what he was paid to do. Still, this simple act of support was not lost on the Pyro.

In the end, it was good for the Sniper that his favor was not soon forgotten. As the fighting continued, and he moved from place to place, trying to stay hidden, his worst enemy was finally able to track him down. Fortunately for him, the Pyro had a favor to repay, and this was her chance to do it. The spy crept up through the winding corridors and lobbies of the RED base, doing everything in his power to evade the one merc he feared most: the Pyro. She had caught sight of him, and like a hunting dog, would not relent as long as she was anywhere near his trail – she was a hyper-persistent predator, and the Spy was her prey. The quiet assassin worked his way up onto the balcony, and quietly, quietly opened the door to the little bunker in the middle of the deck. There was his target, focusing through the scope of his rifle. The Spy raised his knife – and his heart sank as he heard the click and whoosh of an igniting flamethrower. The sound also caught the Sniper's attention, and he turned just in time to see the Pyro set the assassin ablaze. The Spy crashed into the opposite door, flung it open, and leapt down off the balcony to make a mad dash for the river.

After a pause, the Sniper adjusted the brim of his hat and said "Thanks, mate. I owe ya one."

She just responded with a thumbs-up gesture. "Mphh Mhhmmm."

And thus, a partnership, odd as it was, was cemented between the two.


	2. A Dialogue, a Dream, a Dove

The bizarre partnership the Sniper had formed with the Pyro opened his eyes to a whole new layer of interaction he'd never noticed before. He began to see just how badly his teammates treated the mysterious, fire-suited being. Amazing, the sort of things one would never even notice until something called attention to it. Now he couldn't ignore it: it _sucked_ to be the Pyro. Naturally, he felt compelled to be nice to her, simply because nobody else would.

Of course, he was the one member of the team Joan felt she could _trust_. It was a strange feeling, not being nervous or ashamed around a teammate; it was a small blessing, but it was appreciated. As she wore down, she decided she had to share her secret with someone, and the only one she trusted with the knowledge of her identity was her only ally, the Sniper. She made sure he heard her opening the door and stepping into the bunker, so he would glance over.

"G'day," he greeted her. When she didn't make any sounds in response, he looked over. Good, now she had his attention.

She hesitated. Was this a good idea? Her heart was racing. He could easily blow her cover to the whole team, and then she'd be sent away for sure. But how long could she stay closed up inside this suit? She still had to find some way to avoid the operation for the ubercharge procedure – or maybe she didn't. If she could get the Sniper on her side, maybe he'd be able to keep the Medic from letting the information slip when he inevitably discovered her gender. _One step at a time,_ Joan thought. She couldn't let a train of what-ifs lock her up. She took a deep breath, and took the gas mask off.

It took what seemed like an eternity for the Sniper to finally register what he was seeing. It was so far beyond what he expected that the individual details just weren't adding up in his head.

"_My God!_" he finally said, "_You're a sheila!_" Still not quite believing his eyes, he looked over each detail. She had pale, sickly-looking skin, very faint freckles, and pale, dry lips. Her face was proportioned well enough, but her weariness showed. Her shoulder-length red hair was wild and stuck out at odd angles from being smothered inside the gas mask. But what struck the Australian most were her eyes: deep steel grey, framed by both dark lashes and dark circles. It finally sunk in: Pyro was a woman. That was unexpected, at the very least.

"You… I can trust you not to tell anyone, right?" Joan asked quietly. She was somewhat startled by the sound of her own unobstructed voice. It was a surreal experience for both of them. "If they knew, they'd-!"

"I understand exactly what you're hiding from, mate." He knew very well what would happen to her if anyone else found out. "I owe you this much, at least. Yeah, I'll keep your secret; you've got my word – bushman's honor!"

The Pyro let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sniper."

"Name's Mick, by the way. Mick Mundy."

"Uh, Joan Gypsy."

"Great to finally meet you. Your secret's safe with me, Pyro." There was no guarantee that'd he'd keep his word, but Joan felt like she could trust him.

It felt so great, in fact, to finally open up to someone, that she continued talking to him, and that quickly turned into a conversation – something neither one of them got nearly enough of.

* * *

The Scout drifted into that familiar, hazy dream-world where reality had no hold on what was possible. He'd been there often enough, but still it had mysteries and new secrets to offer him. This time, he was in an idyllic field of grass and flowers, which seemed to him to be two kilometers north of heaven and a mile east of the middle of nowhere. He was sitting on a solitary rock near a lone tree, watching a young girl playing in the meadow.

He had no idea who she was, but she was obviously important, or she wouldn't be there. Everything in his dreams was important in some way. The girl, singing in some language he didn't understand, looked about five years old, with shiny orange locks of hair as the only bright color on her – her skin was very pale, and even her bare feet seemed untouched by dirt or mud; the flowers woven into her hair were black and white roses; and her dress was as pure and white as the little dove she was chasing. Even her eyes were colorless.

Finally, the Scout caught a snippet of song he understood, a few words in plain English: "The Sniper knows the Secret, just between him and the Sun!" Scout sighed. Why did everything in his dreams have to be tied up in riddles?

The girl finally seemed to notice his presence, and she brought a bundle of wildflowers over. She looked up at him with those haunting eyes.

"Uh, yo, what's up," the Scout said, not really sure what the girl wanted. She held out a flower to him.

"This is rosemary – it's for remembrance." The Scout played along, taking the flower from her. She continued to pick blossoms out of her bundle and hand them to him. "Those are pansies, for thoughts. There's some fennel for you, and columbines. Here's rue for you, and some for me. I'd give you some daisies, but they all withered when the war started."

"Okay, thank you." Scout found it was best not to argue with or resist the dream-people. If he went along with what they wanted him to do, they usually helped him. "What secret were you talking about earlier?"

The girl giggled. "I can't tell you!" When the Scout asked why, she simply said, "Because then it wouldn't be a secret anymore!" She ran over to the tree, which was covered in beautiful yellow flowers, and started dancing around it, following the dove, which seemed to be playing with her rather than actually trying to escape.

"He watches through the glass full moon, bringing shooting stars of doom," the girl said. _Okay,_ Scout thought, _that was kind of creepy._ The dove landed in the little girl's hands, and she laughed joyfully as it cooed. Then it flew away and landed in the tree. The girl climbed up after it and sat on the branches among the flowers. She looked at the Scout. "Do you know what sort of tree this is?"

"No idea."

"It's an acacia. They say the Australian ones are fire-resistant. They bloom most beautifully, don't you think? A long time ago, people used to say their flowers represented close friendship – or secret love, depending on who you asked. I can see why. They're such pretty blossoms."

The Scout just listened to her babble on, not trying to make any sense of it. "You're a strange kid…" The girl just shrugged.

At this point, the mercenary boy was slowly dragged into the dizzy, half-real fog of awareness in the early morning. He sat up and blinked sleepily. _Haven't had a dream like that in a while,_ he thought.


	3. A Close Call

Joan backed away from the BLU Demoman, running her flamethrower in bursts to conserve what little fuel she had left. She wasn't aware that he'd set a trap and was now herding her straight into it. She learned too late, as she felt the shrapnel of a sticky bomb tear through her midsection. Now she wasn't retreating for fuel, she was running for her life, even as her whole body shuddered with the pain.

At the same time, Mick tried to move as quickly as he could from the bunker to the lower entrance of the RED base – his target was cleverly using the roof of the bridge as cover; he needed to move if he was to hit him. As he left the courtyard, Joan unexpectedly crashed into him and collapsed. Even through the gas mask he could hear her gasps and wheezes of pain. The Pyro got to her feet and fell sideways against the wall, clutching at the spot where the twisted metal had lodged itself in her gut, blood trickling down over her gloves in alarming quantities.

The Sniper's reaction was reflexive. "_Medic!_" he shouted, steadying the Pyro and trying to keep her from hurting herself any further. _No!_ she thought desperately. She was disoriented and panicked, more than the average fighter would be by injury. Surgery would blow her cover, and she wasn't sure she could trust the Medic. She knew better than to hope she could be healed with the medigun; this wasn't a bullet or something small – this was a large piece of metal lodged through her internal organs. The doctor hadn't finished his proper medigun, the one he had on hand was just a prototype. Joan's thought process became increasingly scattered and nonsensical as she grew dizzier and her vision darkened. She was vaguely aware of voices, and then she blacked out.

* * *

The Sniper retreated from the conflict as soon as he could. It felt like hours he was stuck there, peeking his rifle out around the doorframe and firing. He wasn't able to land any headshots, not from there, in that situation, unable to take time to aim, but he was fairly certain he shattered more than a few arms and legs. As soon as he got the chance, he withdrew into the base. He knocked on the door of the Medic's office.

"Herr Mundy," he was greeted almost immediately, "you will not believe what I've discovered!"

_Ah, piss,_ was the first thing that ran through his head. He knew what was coming. He could only hope the doctor would be sympathetic. "Oh, really?"

"Zhe Pyro is a woman!"

"I know mate, I know. You told anyone else yet?"

"No, I just finished." The Medic stepped aside so Mick could come into the room. The doves looked at him curiously. "How did you know zhe Pyro's gender?"

"It's a bit of a long story. How's she doing? What happened? She was bleeding like crazy." The two men walked over to where the unconscious Pyro was recovering. The medigun had patched her up just fine after the shrapnel was removed, but she would still take a little while to wake up. Archimedes was perched on her shoulder, though he fluttered away at the Sniper's approach.

"Sticky bombs. At least four. She'll be perfectly alright when she comes around." The Medic brushed the young woman's hair away from her face with his hand and tucked a few loose strands behind her ear – a motion of compassion, so simple, yet so unlike him.

"If you say so, Doc. I'm going back up to the bunker. I'll come back a while later to check in with ya. I've got a job to do. Don't let anyone know, alright? Not everyone on this team would be so… supportive."

"I was not planning to."

* * *

The fighting raged on, but there were occasional pauses in the action, rendering Teufort still and silent. It was during these breaks that Mick would check on his ally's condition. On the fourth visit, he asked, "Should she be taking this long to wake up?"

"She shouldn't be out much longer. I wouldn't worry, yet."

"I'm not," the Sniper replied calmly.

"Worrying about a friend is perfectly natural, Herr Mundy."

"I'm not worried," Mick repeated. The Medic just shrugged and didn't argue with him; he knew the Sniper had a problem with admitting that he had any emotions at all. Hell, sometimes he even had trouble admitting that he considered someone a friend.

The conversation was interrupted as the Pyro stirred. Archimedes was startled off her shoulder and landed on a nearby table instead. Joan opened her eyes and sat up.

"How are you feeling, fräulein?"

The Pyro locked up in panic for a moment until she saw Mick standing nearby.

"He's on our side," the Sniper reassured her.

The Medic nodded. "Zhe secret is safe wizh me, ah…" he paused, as he realized he didn't know her name.

"Joan. My name is Joan." The German nodded again in acknowledgement.

Joan looked to the side as she felt the dove settle back onto her shoulder. "Archimedes here seems to have taken a liking to you. He would not leave your shoulder for more zhan five minutes at a time." The Medic suddenly grinned and glanced sideways. "Much like your Sniper friend." Mick rolled his eyes. "Anyway, since you were zhe last one scheduled for the ubercharge procedure, I decided to kill two birds wizh one stone – sorry, Archimedes – and go ahead wizh zhat while you were out."

"Lucky," Mick said under his breath. "Didn't put the rest of us out."

"I would have preferred to be awake for it," Joan said.

"No, trust me, mate: you wouldn't have."

"I just feel like if the rest of you had to go through it, I should have too."

"What's done is done," the Medic said. "But I do respect your bravery, Joan. Courage is an admirable trait… One I wish I had more of."


	4. The Seventh Son and the Secret

The Scout mulled over his odd dream, unable to stop thinking about it when he had nothing else to do. His dreams were often an obsession for him, and rightfully so. He _noticed_ things in them; they warned him or made him aware of details he wouldn't always notice in day to day life.

He had once told the Demoman about his often-prophetic dreams, and Tavish had then looked at him very seriously and asked him, "How many brothers did ya say ya had, lad?"

He'd responded that he had seven brothers – technically, six full brothers and one half brother, since Gabriel, the eldest, was from his mother's first marriage. The Demoman had then asked how many brothers his father had, and looked stunned upon hearing that Scout's father had six elder brothers.

"Do you know what this means, lad?" he had said. "It means yer the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Ye have mystical powers, boy. Ye can see the future and uncover hidden truths. Yer a _Seer_, lad!"

Of course, the Scout didn't really put much stock in the whole 'magic' thing, but it had certainly made him feel special and stoked his ego – though it was the one thing he'd never brag openly about, for fear of being mocked – and he did like to believe, just to be on the safe side, that there might actually be some credit to the idea of him being a Seer of sorts. So he always paid attention to his dreams.

The piece of this dream that really bothered the Scout was what the little girl had said: "The Sniper knows the Secret". What secret could she possibly have meant? Why did _he_ need to know that the Sniper was keeping a secret at all? Didn't everyone have secrets? Still, there had to be some significance.

It was a quiet day, though the tension was thick. Neither BLU nor RED wanted to make the first move, but it was clear there would be a clash soon. It was the calm before the storm, which meant, of course, that Mick was up in the bunker, keeping watch and waiting for an unfortunate BLU to poke his head out a door or window. He startled slightly at the sound of the door opening.

"Yo, what's up." The Sniper glanced over at the Scout, and though he just kept on doing what he was doing, he also actively kept an eye on the teen, just in case he was a spy. Scout went over to the back of the bunker and hopped up onto a pile of dusty boxes. He leaned back against one of them.

"Whaddya want, Scout?" the Australian asked, not comfortable with someone hanging around behind him.

"Bored; just wanted to talk."

"Go talk to someone else, then."

"Man, it's stuffy in here. Doesn't it ever get old, just hanging around up here by yourself?" Scout asked. He really had no idea what he was even trying to get at, so he decided the best course of action would be to just chatter about anything and everything until he found what he was looking for. He really wanted to be in on whatever secret was being kept, even if it was of no practical value. Knowing things nobody else knew made him feel special.

The Sniper, though, was not cooperating. He didn't want to talk, and honestly, he found the Scout annoying. "Gun's all the company I need, _mate,_" he replied, trying to subtly convey his irritation. Naturally, it flew right over the Scout's head.

"Jeez, man, if you love that thing so much why don't ya marry it?" The Sniper rolled his eyes. So much for subtlety. At least he was calming down. A spy would have struck by now. Still, he listened – not to the Scout's words, necessarily, but for the sound of footsteps. As long as the Scout stayed perched on his box, Mick could relax and assume he wasn't a spy.

The Scout continued to talk about all manner of things, none of which the Australian paid much attention to. He suddenly went completely stiff at the sound of boards creaking – but they were loud steps, not being concealed in any way. Though he was still looking through his scope, his attention was focused directly behind him, ready to turn around and fight if he felt threatened.

The Sniper nearly jumped out of his skin when the Scout tapped him on the shoulder. "Yo, you even listenin' to me, man?"

"_Don't touch me!_" Mick snapped, with a little more vigor than the situation warranted. Paranoia over spies had only heightened his personal dislike of being touched, especially without warning.

"Whoa, man! Okay, okay!" the Scout said, backing away, hands up.

"And _don't_ sneak up on me like that." He continued to glare at the Scout warily for a few moments before returning to watching the BLU base.

Scout returned to his place on the boxes, silent. After a moment, he spoke up. "Sometimes, you're as antisocial as the Pyro."

"Pyro's not necessarily antisocial," Mick said.

Scout raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? That creep never talks to anyone, never takes its mask off, nothing. Won't even eat near us."

"Maybe he just doesn't feel comfortable around us. Wouldn't blame him, with the way we treat him."

"It was like that from the moment it showed up. We tried to be nice to it, remember? But it just… stared at us. Through those creepy lenses."

"Maybe he's scared of us."

"Heh, why? Why would it be scared of its own team? Besides, it obviously ain't afraid of you. It follows you like some kind of freakish puppy. It's just creepy as hell! I really wish we didn't have to keep it around. We'd be better off without it."

"Pyro's a useful member of the team and deserves more credit than that. You _know_ that, Scout."

"Like what? What's it do for us that the rest of us can't accomplish without it?"

"_Stop callin' her 'it', wouldja?!_" Mick snapped. He immediately regretted it. _Oh, __piss!_

The short, stunned silence felt like eternity. _Please don't notice, please don't notice,_ the Sniper hoped, on the off chance that his slip-up flew over the Scout's head.

"Wait, _Pyro's a __chick?!_"

The Sniper sighed. He couldn't cover it up, so he might as well try to get the Scout on his side before he spread the information like a wildfire. The worst possible outcome would be if people like the Soldier or the Demoman found out. They would _not_ be sympathetic.

"Look, mate, I wasn't supposed to tell you that, but now that it's out: yes. Pyro's a sheila; her name's Joan." He looked over his shoulder and lowered his glasses so he could fix the Scout with his icy blue stare. "And I _don't_ want you giving her any trouble about being a woman."

"Alright, alright, not like I'd hit on that creep anyway. I bet it-er, she's ugly."

The Sniper gave him a very odd look. "That is not even _remotely_ what I was trying to get at."

"So why do you even hang out with i- her? If ya ask me – and ya really should – you should just stop pallin' around with that lunatic. Freakin' weirdo."

Mick glared at him again. "I'm the only mate she's got, and you want me to just turn my back on her? No. I don't believe in that sort of thing." He returned to looking through the scope.

"You don't be-_You shoot people in the head for a living; whaddya mean you don't believe in that sort of thing?!_" the Scout protested, incredulous.

"Look, mate: shootin' some bloke I'm hired to kill in the head is one thing; shootin' some poor sheila with no friends in the self-esteem is entirely another!"

"You know what?" the Scout said, sitting up. He grinned, believing he'd found the _real_ secret. It was a more _fun_ secret, at least. "I bet you're just sayin' that cause you _like_ her."

"I'm a professional. Professionals have standards, not feelings; unnecessary cruelty for no reason at all is against my standards, end of story."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," the Scout said, still grinning. "Denial's a river in Africa."

The Australian ignored him. "You're awfully rude to her. That's against my standards too, for the record. She tells me all about the things you blokes say, ya know." He glanced over his shoulder to see if his guilt trip had any effect on the Scout.

"Yeah, why should I care?"

"Because you're hurting her," Mick replied bluntly, not even looking away from his gun.

"_Newsflash!_ I hurt people! I'm a force of nature! It's what I do, man!" the Scout laughed. How did the Sniper _not_ know this?

"Newsflash, mate: so do I. You still don't see me being pointlessly cruel to her."

The Scout didn't have a good comeback to that. "Yeah, whatever. I still think you just like her."

"Think what you like, mate. We both know I'm right: you shouldn't treat her the way you do."

"Oh, what I _should_ or _shouldn't_ do," the Scout mocked. "Since when did you become a preacher? _Thou shalt not, _blah blah blah. Like I even care."

The Sniper decided this was an appropriate time to lob his verbal grenade for some serious damage. "You know, she was nearly in tears over something you said a while back." He glanced over. Yes, the Scout looked a bit uncomfortable. Finally, something had hit home. "We were just talking, and she said she'd been keeping something locked up inside, and she couldn't take it anymore, so I told her I'd listen to whatever problem she wanted to share. You know what she said, mate?" He paused for emphasis. "She said you told her to go drown herself under the bridge." The Scout gulped, but Mick just continued. "That was just downright callous, even by your standards. All I'm sayin', mate, is that you should really rethink the way you treat the Pyro."

The Scout did _not_ want to be a part of this conversation anymore. He hopped off his box. "Yeah, whatever man. I'm gonna head out." The Sniper resisted the urge to grin smugly. He could tell that his words had struck the Scout. He wasn't just a sharp shot with a gun; he could snipe with words too.

"Yeah, see ya later, mate." As the Scout opened the door, Mick decided to take one final measure, just for safety's sake. "Oh, and Scout?" The boy paused and looked at him, but avoided looking him in the eyes at first. Mick wouldn't have this. He lowered his glasses, and when the Scout guiltily made eye contact, the Australian hit him with his best piercing glare. "Don't you go blabbing to anybody about this." He shifted his rifle slightly, to draw attention to it. Scout gulped again and nodded, before walking out, trying not to look scared.

As the teen walked along the balcony back to the main base, he kicked an empty can of BONK! and stared down at the floor. Any glee the Scout would have gotten from being in on the secret – or secrets – had been effectively drained. Why did the Sniper have to be so damn _good_ at guilt trips?


	5. Rosemary for Remembrance

The last wire slipped into place, and the last piece of framework clicked on. Moments later, the screws fastened it into place. "Zhere… Zhat shouldn't short out." The Medic admired his handiwork – the brand new medigun. It looked far better than its predecessor, but it couldn't keep its creator focused on his achievement for long, as a new thought crossed his mind. He stood up and walked to the window, deep in thought, hands clasped behind his back. Archimedes flew over and landed on his shoulder, cooing softly. He could tell when something was troubling his master. The German didn't react to the bird's concern, too deep in his contemplations.

He was jolted from his reverie by the creaking sound of the door opening. The Medic turned, and saw a gas mask poking through a partially open door as the Pyro cautiously looked in, making sure she wasn't interrupting anything important. Seeing that she wasn't, she opened the door the rest of the way and stepped into the office, then shut it behind her.

"Is everyzhing alright?" the Medic asked, somewhat surprised by her sudden appearance.

Joan took the gas mask off cautiously, trying to keep something between her and the window at all times. "I just wanted to thank you," she said quietly. "For being so… accepting. For being kind to me." He blinked in surprise. "It's not something I'm used to. Most of the team is afraid of me." Much to her surprise, the Medic started chuckling. "What's so funny?"

The German just shook his head, grinning. "I just find it amusing zhat someone like zhe Heavy is so terrified of _you_ – a friendly, bright-eyed fräulein half his size! It just goes to show how little physical form actually means; few members of zhis team would be willing to believe a young woman could do zhe zhings zhat you have done, and yet, you are living proof zhat zhere is at least _one_ who can."

She smiled and nodded bashfully. She did like boosting people's opinion of women in general, proving that they could do things nobody thought they could. Perhaps that was one of the things that had driven her to become a mercenary in the first place. It made her feel like she was doing something important with her life. "Thank you, doctor. That means a lot to me."

"It's only true," he replied, sitting down by the operating table. "We should all be _proud_ to have you on our team." He chuckled again. "If only zhe Heavy knew just what he was so frightened of…! You're nozhing to be afraid of!" He quickly added onto his statement when he realized he had sounded more dismissive than supportive. "Not saying, of course, zhat you are not a capable fighter; just zhat you aren't zhe mindless, bloodzhirsty, wild monster he zhinks you are. You're no different zhan any ozher merc on zhe team, really – well, aside from zhe, uh, obvious."

The Pyro laughed quietly and hopped up onto a cabinet, so the shadows fell over her, on the off chance that someone looked in through the window. "Honestly, I'm just as afraid of him. I don't see why he thinks I'm a threat – he could crush my entire rib cage between the palms of his hands if he tried."

"Zhen it's quite a testament to your abilities zhat you can strike fear into his heart." The Medic thought for a moment. "You shouldn't be afraid of him, really. He is not so bad when you get to know him. He is actually very friendly and intelligent, as awkward as his English may be." The doctor smiled. "Most people on zhis team aren't so scary when you get to know zhem. Zhey all have zheir own hopes and dreams; zheir own pasts. Don't we all have stories to tell?"

"I guess so," Joan replied. Archimedes sailed over and landed on her knee in one graceful motion. The little bird cooed and looked up at her with those big, dark eyes. It was impossible for her to keep from smiling. "Hello, there," she said quietly, stroking the dove's head with one finger, as he cooed contentedly.

"And yours?" the Medic asked. "What's your story?"

The Pyro shrugged. "I don't really know much of it. When I was a child, I was adopted by a soldier. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by battle, though, really, I shouldn't be." She tried not to think about the day she'd found out what had happened. Luckily, the Medic asked her a question that pulled her thoughts away from those memories.

"You could be crippled or killed. Doesn't zhat ever scare you?" The doctor seemed genuinely concerned.

"Sometimes," Joan admitted, "but I'm more afraid of living uselessly than dying. 'All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity,' as Shakespeare put it."

The Medic stood up and walked over to the window. "You've read _Hamlet_," he commented softly, with a sad smile. "Zhat was my wife's favorite book…" He paused to keep from getting too emotional. "She learned zhat outdated English just to be able to read it in its original language." He struggled to keep his voice from quivering, failing toward the end of his sentence.

"I… I'm sorry…" Joan whispered. The Medic looked over his shoulder at her. "For your loss, I mean…"

"Nein… Don't be," he said, forcing a sad smile, though he was clearly still hurting. He changed the topic. "Anyway… If you ever _are_ afraid, or should you ever need anyzhing, you can come to me. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Medic." The Pyro smiled at him apologetically, deeply sorry for bringing up painful memories. "I… should go now," she said, reaching for the gas mask. He nodded.

"Goodbye…" The German, while not exactly _glad_ to get rid of her, needed some time by himself, and she knew that.


	6. My Thoughts be Bloody

It was only a matter of time before another battle broke out. With little warning, Teufort exploded into chaos as RED and BLU came to blows over the intelligence. The RED Demoman entered the BLU base through the sewers, and met up with the Scout, who'd been able to outmaneuver the defenders.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's move, Cyclops! They know we're here!" Scout urged, taking off. He led the way, stopping occasionally and looking over his shoulder to make sure the Demoman was still behind him. Alarms were going off, alerting everyone that the RED Scout was in the base – they were still ignorant of the Demoman's presence, and that was their weakness. They weren't expecting the Scout to be able to get through the locked door to the intelligence room; they figured they had more time than was really available to them. It only took a couple well-placed sticky bombs to not only blow the door off its hinges but to also ruin the hinges so it would take a while to repair the damage. Scout grabbed one of the two intelligence briefcases – the other was hidden somewhere and he didn't have time to look. The two mercs split up to confuse the defenders, each taking a totally different route. Scout rushed up to the second floor of the base and made a dash for the balcony. There, he was out! He could see all the fighting going on below! His base was so close – even if he dropped the intelligence now, it would be close enough for someone else to recover! He jumped for the roof of the bridge; he heard beeping followed by gunfire – and before he knew what had happened, he found himself face down on the ground at the entrance to the bridge, in a world of pain and blood.

The Scout shuddered in pain as he tried to pick himself up, but no sooner had his head poked up above the railing of the bridge than bullets zipped by him and he dropped back to the floor. He heard an explosion, saw bits of blue metal go flying, and heard the BLU engineer shout about his sentry being down. Scout leapt to his feet and started to run, but his bag snagged on a plank blown loose by the explosion, stopping him on the spot. Voices sounded behind him – BLU was after him! In his panic, the Scout turned the wrong way, tangling the strap on his bag. His heart stopped momentarily when he saw the BLU Soldier taking aim. A rocket flew at him, and the Scout could only stand there like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Then, he heard "_Mpph hmm!_" followed by a blasting noise like compressed air escaping its container. The Pyro had missed, but thankfully so had the Soldier.

Meanwhile, the Sniper rushed to a new shooting location as fast as he could, knelt down and took aim, catching a glimpse of what Joan had tried to do. "Clever girl…" he mumbled, trying to locate the Soldier, who had run out of the line of sight of his original sniping location. He found his target just as he ran out of sight again. "_Damn it!_ Hang in there!" he said, glancing over at the Pyro and the Scout. A BLU mercenary – Mick didn't even take the time to identify him – moved to come out of the building, and the Sniper fired a shot, striking his target in the shoulder and forcing him to retreat for medical attention before he bled out from a major artery.

Pyro's speech was unintelligible, of course, but the tone suggested to the Scout that he was being told to hold still, so he froze. The gloved hands worked with surprising deftness and dexterity, untangling the strap that the Scout had practically got in knots in his desperation. Then, the Pyro grabbed his hand and ran toward the RED base. As soon as the Scout stopped stumbling and got back into the rhythm of running, he pulled ahead, but did not let go – no, he dragged her along with him. A bullet zipped past them, splintering the wood next to the door of the RED base. Moments later the two mercs dashed in, and stopped just inside the building to get their bearings, breathing hard, not so much from the running as from the sheer adrenaline rush.

"Uh, thanks Jo-err _bro!_" Scout mumbled. The Pyro didn't have time to wonder about the boy's words, as alarms started going off. The enemy had taken their intelligence as well! The two began running again, just in time to see the Medic dashing for the water pipes, syringe gun in hand.

Joan turned to the Scout and gestured for him to keep going, with another muffled shout that relied more on tone than content. She turned the other way and followed after the German, announcing her presence with another yell. He turned to look, and motioned frantically for her to hurry. "_Schnell, schnell!_"

He followed her down the stairs into the 'sewer' – it wasn't really; it was far too clean and spacious for that, but that's what everyone called it. They paused for just a moment, listening. Yes, there was splashing coming from ahead – the enemy was down here!

The two defenders chased after the unknown BLU like their lives depended on it. They rounded the corner and saw their target – the BLU Heavy, with their intelligence briefcase over his shoulder. Pyro pulled the trigger on her flamethrower, and her heart sunk when the flame flickered and sputtered out. It was too damp down here! The failure cost her valuable time; the Heavy turned, spinning his minigun up, and then began to fire. Bullets riddled Joan's body and she was sure this would be her end.

"_Ophelia!_" the Medic cried out, frantically activating the ubercharge on his medigun. Joan didn't have time to wonder about what he'd said. She gasped quietly as bullets began to bounce harmlessly off of her. Holding her flamethrower in one hand, she pulled her fire axe out of its sheath and, with a berserker roar distorted and muffled by the gas mask, charged at the BLU Heavy as fast as she could through the water, swinging the blade wildly.

Blood spurted everywhere, staining the walls and tinting the water that splashed all around, obscuring the violence as the now-invulnerable woman viciously attacked her foe. The man's dying scream echoed through the pipes and was followed by a short silence. The ubercharge fizzled out and the Pyro put her axe back, hands trembling. She unstrapped the intelligence briefcase from the Heavy's back and turned to the Medic, who stood to the side to let her go in front of him. The two of them quickly returned the briefcase, a bit damp, but still intact.


	7. Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire

The fighting died down, with only one more incident that afternoon, when the Pyro had successfully identified and chased off the BLU Spy, who, while good at mimicking the Sniper's general mannerisms, gave himself away by referring to Joan as a bloke when he had no reason to pretend she was male. Even as he dashed to the water and threw himself in to stop the burning, he had no clue what had set the Pyro off. Such were the advantages of such a close and secret friendship – the Pyro and the Sniper knew each other, already, better than anyone else on either team. And yet, they still had so much to learn about one another, so many stories to tell and to hear.

That night, neither one rested as Teufort fell into the silence of sleep. Joan sat a good distance away from the two buildings and the bridge, perched atop a large rock among a patch of yellow flowers, some of which she'd plucked and was now absentmindedly pulling the petals off of as she gazed up at the stars. The petals floated away lazily on a gentle breeze, as the Pyro enjoyed their delicate scent in the unfiltered air. It was nice to take the mask off. She stopped and looked to the side when she heard footsteps in the dirt and gravel.

"You shouldn't be out alone at night like this, mate," Mick said quietly. He was surprised to see her out here in the middle of the night. Normally he didn't encounter others when he went for these quiet walks.

"Neither should you," Joan pointed out. "But now that we're both here, we're not alone, so that solves it, doesn't it?"

The Sniper nodded. "Fair enough." He sat down next to her and looked up at the sky. The moon was bright, a thick crescent bathing the desert landscape in its silvery glow, while stars glittered around it. Crickets chirped softly in the warm night air, but otherwise, all was quiet.

"What brought you out here?" the Pyro asked.

"Couldn't sleep." Mick hesitated, before explaining. "Sight of the moon helps me sleep. It's… comforting. Sometimes I just take a little walk out here at night to feel better. You?"

"I like to look at the stars," she replied simply, not taking her gaze off the sky.

"Know any constellations?"

"I can find the Big Dipper – but everyone knows that one. Other than that, no; not really."

"Neither do I." Mick chuckled. He'd navigated by the stars a few times back in Australia, but he didn't know their names or symbols. "I know Orion – ya know, the hunter, from… wasn't it, uh, Greek mythology? Somethin' like that. But that's about it."

There was a very long silence as the two mercenaries just quietly looked at the moon and stars, feeling a little less alone than they had before.

"You know, Aborigines say the sun is female and the moon is male. Kinda funny; you'd think it would be the other way around, wouldn't ya? But I guess it works, in a way. I've always kind of… identified with the moon. I don't know why. Even more so, now; it reminds me of the things I use all the time." The Sniper held his kukri in front of him and tilted it so it reflected the moon's light. "Looks kinda like a crescent, doesn't it? And the moon itself, it's sorta like a scope – you only get that full circle of light when the sun shines on it just right. But it's always watching, even if you can't see it; always up there." After a moment, he laughed. "I sound like such a whackjob when I talk like that!"

"You don't have to worry about sounding crazy… Look who you're talking to," the Pyro replied.

"Ah, you don't seem crazy to me, mate. Least, not now that I know ya." He put the kukri back on his belt as he spoke.

"Sometimes I think I enjoy the fighting too much." When she didn't get a response, Joan continued. "And I see things that aren't there, sometimes. At least, I don't think they are."

Now he was looking at her in curiosity, one eyebrow raised. "What sort of things?"

"Angels, mostly." The Pyro didn't dare look at her companion, afraid of what he might think.

"Angels? So you religious, then?" He sounded skeptical, but not dismissive.

Joan wasn't really sure how to respond. She focused on silently pulling the flowers apart, petal by tiny petal, piece by miniscule piece. "I… don't know. I really don't know what I believe – what to think." There was another awkward silence.

"Yeah," the Sniper replied at last. "You're not alone there, mate." Before he could think much more on the topic, Joan redirected the conversation.

"That was poetic, what you said earlier. A scope in the sky." She thought for a moment, then added: "Orion's Scope."

The Australian grinned. "Heh. I like the sound of that." They looked up at the night sky again, the dizzying, endless black abyss glimmering with millions of lights.

"You know, stars are just giant fireballs. Every world revolves around a fire."

"Yeah, just look at 'em all, out there. Our sun is nothing special when you stop to think about it."

"Except that it's here," Joan pointed out. "It's ours. That alone makes it different, doesn't it?"

"Guess you're right, mate. I like the way you think." The Sniper noticed the yellow blossoms the Pyro was playing with. "Those flowers kinda remind me of home."

For what was possibly the first time during their conversation, she paused and looked over at him. "Why's that?"

"When I was a kid, we had this big golden wattle right next to our house. Beautiful trees – what do they call 'em here, acacias? Used to get these yellow flowers every spring."

"That sounds like it must have been beautiful." Joan had stopped pulling the flowers apart and simply left them alone.

"Yeah." Mick looked up at the moon, smiling slightly. "It was."


	8. La Pucelle

Scout faded into his dream world again. This time, the world was significantly different, set in medieval times. He looked down – instead of his usual shirt, he was wearing a crimson tunic with gold embroidery. Silver pauldrons rested on his shoulders, surprisingly lightweight, and his baseball bat had been replaced with a sword. He was standing in a stone building, lit by torches. Everything was beautiful and vibrant, like he'd stepped into a fairy tale. He slowly approached the door, metal boots clanking as he went. He pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped out into a courtyard.

The Scout paused and looked in wonder at the strange sight before him. A small army seemed to be gathering in the courtyard. Their leader rode a pure white horse back and forth in front of them. Someone moved, and the sun reflected off a round shield, creating a blinding circle of light around the commander's head like a halo. Scout squinted and looked away for a moment, then observed the person on the snow-colored horse. She was a young woman in a white dress, with red hair cascading down her back almost down to the saddle, and a white rose tucked into it. Like him, she wore silver pauldrons and was equipped with a weapon, a long spear with a banner tied to it: silver, with the emblem of an orange sun on it. At first, Scout thought she had dove wings, like an angel, but looking again, he saw that she had raised a hand in a gesture, and the wind had simply caught her long white sleeves.

The Bostonian wondered who this lady was supposed to be. Something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't place exactly what, or who she reminded him of. Perhaps this was the little girl from his previous dream, or perhaps not. Her eyes reminded him of someone – the Medic was the first person to come to mind. He had eyes like that. Or maybe she was not meant to be connected to anyone he knew. Once, the Scout recalled, in one of those arguments the RED team got into now and then over whose country was the best, the Spy had told stories of the accomplishments of young French heroine Jeanne D'Arc. Perhaps this was her. He looked around for any indication that he might be in medieval France, but found nothing to pin down any location at all. Maybe if he asked someone, that would help.

He found a guardsman and asked him what was going on.

"Ah, the Maid is preparing to lead us to battle, m'Lord!" That was unhelpful. Even his accent didn't tell the Scout anything at all. He sounded French and English and German all at once. "We're nearly all here- ah! Speak of the devil! Her bowmen have arrived! She holds them in very high esteem, you know, very high esteem. Soft you now, she speaks!"

Suddenly the general murmuring and noise of the courtyard died down as a voice rang out clear as a bell. "Wonder ye, whether 'tis nobler in the heart to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take up arms against one's troubles, and in opposing, end them? I say, it is not sufficient to merely be or merely not to be. Oh, to die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ah, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. But whatever has become of simply dreaming? Do dreams alone change anything? Nay, nor do it to simply be. To be or not to be, that is _not_ the question, for neither makes a difference. We who suffer must also fight, though it may pain us! The question, then, is: what is worth fighting for?"

The woman raised her spear, letting the sun-banner flutter on the warm breeze, as she turned to the archers. "Oh, my poor bowmen. What a fate awaits the sharpest shots amongst you, if ye have no sun to light your way? Doth it not shine like a flame? All of you, yes, ye men of the moonlight, must keep also the Sun close to your hearts, for without her ye are lost and forsaken. Now, onward!" A general cheer rose up from the crowd of knights and archers as the pale horse turned and the Maid waved her banner in a signal for them to follow. As they began to leave, so did the Scout, waking from his dream.

Scout sat up and rubbed his eyes, then put his hands on his face for a moment before sighing. "What the hell kinda symbolism was that?" he mumbled, wondering why his supposed Seer's powers insisted on giving him only riddles instead of clear visions. This one hadn't even given him a clear goal, unlike his last dream. "I must be crazy," the boy muttered.

* * *

The morning light filled the Medic's office with a golden glow, and the doves perched on the windowsill, eyes half shut as they enjoyed the sun's warmth. Joan sat in the corner, out of sight from anyone who would look in.

"You certainly have proven yourself, Joan," the Medic said. "Your performance yesterday was impressive. I zhink you made an impression on zhe rest of zhe team; as you should. We should be proud to have you on zhe team."

"Thank you, Doctor. We should all be just as proud of you. For all they say of you being supposedly… well, mad… you've had your share of heroism. I couldn't have recovered the intelligence without you, after all. You don't get the credit you deserve. You're actually very kind, at least to me, despite your fascination with strange science. Don't we all have quirks, anyway?"

The German smiled. "Zhank you, _mein Taube._ I am not as noble as you seem to zhink," the Medic said, getting a box out of a cabinet. He paused as he poured out some of its contents into his hand and called the doves over. "But I am not as mad as some would lead you to believe, eizher." The three birds landed near his hand and started pecking at the food. "Would you like to feed zhem?"

"I'd love to," Joan said. The doves looked up, confused, as the Medic abruptly moved, taking their food away, then they hopped over to Joan's arms when he put the remaining food in her hand. The doctor couldn't help but smile at the bright-eyed expression of delight on the Pyro's face. He liked seeing her so happy. Bringing joy to others was a part of him not often expressed, but a part nonetheless.

"That's something we have in common, then," Joan said. "Being misunderstood, I mean. They think we're both crazier than we are. But we're people just like them. And valuable members of the team."

"Among ozher zhings, ja." Yes, they did have quite a few things in common. Connections with other people were something that the Medic appreciated deeply. His past had taught him never to take them for granted.

The doves finished eating, and two of them flew away, but Archimedes stayed perched on Joan's hand. She stroked the top of the bird's head with one finger. "Medic," Joan said, with a slightly puzzled tone, like she wanted to ask him a question.

"Hm?" He adjusted his glasses and looked at her curiously.

"Yesterday, you called me Ophelia." The Medic's expression darkened in an instant. "Why?"

The German turned away from her. "I… don't want to talk about it," he said grimly. "Joan, please leave." The Pyro blinked in surprise and picked up her gas mask, then hurriedly put it on. Archimedes fluttered onto the windowsill, wondering why his perch had so suddenly moved. The dove watched her quickly leave the room.

The Medic took off his glasses and put his hand over his face with a weary sigh. Then he put his spectacles back in place, and opened a drawer. Frowning, he moved some of the contents gently aside, and picked up the old picture frame, and looked at it for several long minutes. "Twenty-two years, _mein Gott,_ has it really been so long?" he muttered. "My poor Ophelia…" Tears welled up in his eyes. "Sofia… I'm so sorry."

One of the doves landed on the doctor's shoulder and cooed. The Medic blinked back his tears and took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and sighed. "Don't worry, Archimedes. We'll find a way. Someday." He looked sadly at the photograph again, then put it away. The dove flew off his shoulder and landed on something, then cooed until the German looked up at him.

Archimedes was perched on an aged wooden box. He stepped off when the Medic reached up to take the delicately-painted box off the shelf. It was in surprisingly good condition, considering what all it had been through since the war. The flowers painted all around it were still clearly visible, except for the daisy on the front, which had been chipped off. The pale rue, orange marigolds, and purple hyacinth were still clearly identifiable among the intricate green leaves, though the colors were faded. The lid of the old music box was also well-preserved, with the undamaged image of a bleeding heart dove in the branches of a weeping willow still clearly painted on it. The doctor wound the box up, and opened it slowly. The music maker inside still chirped out its little tune like bells, and the tiny ceramic unicorn still turned, though it now looked like nothing more than a dirty old horse, since the horn had been broken off.

The Medic listened and watched for a long time, remembering and wishing.


	9. Friends

The Pyro, still unnerved by the Medic's unexpected mood swing, fled to her other refuge. The sniper bunker was quickly becoming her favorite place in Teufort; she felt safe in the warm, dusty air that filtered light into soft beams and gave the room a cozy, sleepy feel despite being full of crated weapons and located in the middle of a battlefield. It helped that by its nature the room shielded her from prying eyes thanks to the thick boards and blinds over the windows, and of course, that it was the natural place to find her best friend and ally, the Sniper.

He was exactly where she expected him to be, dutifully keeping watch over the Teufort bridge. He glanced over and offered his standard greeting: "G'day."

"How are you doing today?" she asked, taking her usual seat atop a crate.

"Pretty good. You?"

"Well enough, I guess." Joan paused, mulling over possible wordings for what she wanted to express, and wondering if she should express it at all.

"You're awfully quiet," the Sniper observed.

Joan didn't directly respond, but settled hesitantly on a phrase. "I think I upset the Medic."

Mick turned to look at her. "What happened?"

"I asked him about the name he called me the other day – Ophelia. He got pretty depressed and told me to leave."

"That's strange. Is that why you're here?" The Australian looked both concerned and a bit disappointed.

Joan paused again. There was no way to answer that question without implying she was only hanging around with him because someone else had kicked her out, but telling him specifically that wasn't the case would just sound awkward.

The Sniper apparently read her expression like a book. "You don't need to worry what I'll think, mate. Just be open with me. I'm your friend." He didn't exactly blame the Pyro for worrying. Being who she was, doing what she did, it was no wonder she was afraid to express herself openly, even with an ally. She was so used to being judged every time she turned around.

Joan looked at the ground and silently mouthed the word 'friend'. She lifted her head and looked into the pale blue eyes peering back at her curiously, but not harshly. "Thank you, Mick," she said quietly. "That means a lot."

He just laughed quietly. "Ah, I should have guessed you'd be surprised by that." He turned back to the window, smiling. "Sorry. Sometimes I forget we only formally met a couple days ago. It feels like I've known ya forever."

"Same here." _Perhaps,_ Joan thought, _it's the isolation that makes a meaningful connection with anyone such a big deal to us._ "I feel like I know you far better than I really do." _I feel safe with you,_ she mentally added. She wasn't about to actually say it. The Pyro absentmindedly drew in the dust on the box next to her. The yellow fingertip of her glove slowly traced out the shape of a tree with flowers on it.

After a moment, she said, "I think the Scout may have figured out my secret somehow. " The Sniper felt his blood go cold. And he had _just_ finished telling her that she could _trust_ him, that he was her friend. Joan continued before he could respond. "I… think he knows my name. I can't be sure, but he sounded like he was going to say 'Joan' before he switched words."

"Really? That's odd," Mick said, trying to sound distant and unemotional. He was feeling the exact opposite, experiencing several emotions at once: guilt, anger, dread. He had betrayed her trust – by accident, yes, but it was still betrayal – and he just _knew_ that if she found out about that, she'd never trust him again. At the same time, he was angry at the Scout for doing exactly what he had done – letting the information slip. He knew it was hypocritical and he didn't care.

"Maybe I was just imagining it. Scout seems like the kind of person who wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut if he knew."

"Yeah, probably," the Sniper agreed, resisting the urge to let out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted, for now. He decided it would be a good idea to change the topic before the Pyro could continue down that path. "Ya know, we hardly know anything about each other's pasts. Where you from, anyway?"

"I… don't exactly know."

"How can you not know where you're from?" Mick asked, turning to give her a look of confusion.

"I was adopted by a soldier. I lived with him in Washington until I was twelve, but he never told me where I originally came from. He only said that I came from someplace far away, and he found me somewhere terrible." The Pyro was silent for a moment. "He… never really recovered from the horrible things he saw in the war – I don't even know where he went or what he saw. He didn't like to talk about it." Joan looked at the floor, biting her lip. Quietly, she continued, "I guess he couldn't take it anymore. He shot himself." She didn't have to look up to know that the Sniper was staring at her.

"_Crikey,_" he mumbled, after a silence that felt like forever.

Joan did _not_ want to linger on that part of the story. She wanted to avoid thinking about the memories of coming home from school and finding her adoptive father with his brains blown out. "I moved from foster home to foster home but nobody ever officially adopted me. That's when I started lighting fires. After that, I took care of myself; nothing really important happened until I joined RED. And the rest, you know." She fidgeted uncomfortably on the crate, while the Sniper regretted asking in the first place.

Mick stumbled over an apology. "I really had no idea, mate. Sorry I brought it up. Didn't mean to upset you."

"It's not your fault," the Pyro said, not making eye contact.

The Sniper put his rifle down and turned to face her, not really sure what to do. He wanted to cheer her up, but he honestly had no idea how. Australians often responded to uncomfortably depressing situations with dark humor, but in his experience, Americans didn't seem to react well to this sort of 'consolation', and besides, the Sniper was terrible at telling jokes. _This,_ he thought, _is why I'm an assassin, and not a therapist._ After a moment of consideration he awkwardly, gingerly patted her shoulder, trying not to cringe at the physical contact.

She smiled a bit at that. "Thanks."

Mick decided the best thing he could do would be to take her mind off the upsetting subject; the only way he could think of to do that would be to distract her from her own history by telling her his. _This is probably a terrible idea,_ he thought, but he went ahead with it anyway. He told her stories of his adventures in the Australian Outback – hunting the man-eating crocodile Ol' Snaggletooth, wrangling venomous snakes, rescuing an orphaned kangaroo, and fending off dingoes with nothing more than a knife and his trusty rifle. When it seemed the Pyro had been suitably distracted from her sorrow, the Sniper returned his attention to keeping watch over the bridge and enemy base, but didn't stop telling his story. Joan listened in fascination, and the happy mood they'd been in when she'd first come in returned.

"… and you know what I noticed?" the Sniper continued his tale. "Spendin' so much time alone with all those animals, it dawned on me, that out of all the creatures in Australia, the only one that cares whether you're a bloke or a sheila is humans. Something just doesn't seem right about that to me – but anyway, I just sort of forgot about it, until I met you. Now, I'm no coward, obviously – the stories speak for themselves – but I've gotta admit, mate, you have courage of an entirely different sort, and it's pretty inspiring." Mick stopped talking abruptly, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward. He'd seen something; that much would have been obvious, if Joan were only paying attention to her friend's body language.

"Hm. I hear there's a big feminist movement going on in Australia. Is that true?"

Mick wasn't fully paying attention to her. "I wouldn't call it 'big'. It's more- oh, I think he saw me." Now the Pyro was on alert. Moments later, the Sniper ducked to the side as a rocket sailed in through the narrow opening in the window Mick had been aiming through. It exploded in the back of the bunker, kicking up a blinding, suffocating cloud of dust. Both RED mercenaries started coughing. A crate fell down next to Mick, kicking up even more dust.

"Yeah, definitely saw me." The Sniper peeked up over the edge of the window with his rifle and fired a shot, hitting the BLU Soldier in the gut, but a second rocket was already on its way. He tried to get out of the way but he tripped over the fallen crate. "Bloody-!" The next thing the Australian heard was the sound of compressed air being released. He looked over at the window, where the Pyro stood in front of him, having successfully reflected the rocket.

"_Yeah! Got him!_" she cheered.

"Ace timing, mate! Ya kill him?"

"No, but I still got him! Did you hear that?" Joan cackled maniacally. "He's screaming for his Medic!"

The Sniper was vaguely aware that he _should_ have been disturbed by the Pyro's laughter, but he honestly didn't give a damn. He laughed a bit, as well, mostly out of relief, as he stood up and adjusted his hat. "Thanks for that, Joan!"

"I'll admit it, that was mostly luck," she said.

"Ah, don't be so modest. Doesn't matter if it was luck or not; you still saved my hide!" He grinned, and she couldn't help but return the broad smile.


	10. Not a Crazed Gunman, Dad

The Scout had been approaching the bunker when he heard the rocket, and he broke into a run. He swung the door open as the words of his dream ran through his head: _What a fate awaits the sharpest shots amongst you._ "What's goin' on? I heard a lotta noise like explosions an-"

He stopped suddenly when he saw the Pyro, and simply stared blankly, like he was having a hard time processing what he was seeing. After a moment he gave a halfhearted wave. "Uh, yo, what's up. So… that's what you look like under the mask, huh? Nice to meet ya, I guess, uh…" At that point he realized he wasn't supposed to know her name so he looked at her like he was expecting an introduction.

The Pyro looked at him warily, then glanced at the Sniper. He shrugged slightly, so she just turned back to the Scout. "Joan Gypsy." She hesitantly extended her hand to shake his, and he just went with it.

"Scout Delphi," he said.

Joan laughed a bit. "Your name really is Scout?"

The Bostonian grinned, thankful that the awkward, wary tension had been lifted. The Sniper's cold glare didn't exactly help matters, but he seemed to lighten up a bit at the Pyro's laughter. "Yeah, pretty funny, huh?"

"Scout, why are you up here?" the Australian asked, clearly annoyed.

"Well, funny thing; I was actually coming up here to ask if you knew where the Pyro was."

The Sniper frowned. "What makes you think I'd know where she was if she wasn't here? What am I, her keeper?" The Scout just shrugged, with a knowing, taunting smirk on his face. Mick was unamused.

"Well… here I am," the Pyro said.

"I've been thinking," the Scout said, "and I figured I owed you an apology. Ya know, for all the nasty things I've said to you." It was the Sniper's turn to look rather smug, if only for a fleeting moment. "I was also thinking we – the whole team – could play some baseball some time. You know how to play baseball, right? I can teach ya the basics if ya don't."

Before Joan could answer, Mick spoke up. "Nah, I have a better idea, mate." He grinned. Five minutes later, the Pyro was in the courtyard, trying to airblast baseballs back at the Scout.

* * *

Not terribly long after, Mick heard the door open and looked to see who it was. The Pyro strode in, wearing her gas mask, but something seemed off, and the Sniper wasn't quite sure what it was until he noticed the distinct lack of the propane-and-cinnamon smell that tended to follow the Pyro around.

Not letting his suspicion show, he greeted his supposed teammate. "Why don't you take off your mask, mate? You know you're always welcome up here." He didn't move, but he was focusing all his attention directly behind him, waiting for the Spy to come closer and attempt to backstab him. Then he'd retaliate when his foe's defenses were lowered.

The BLU Spy knew he couldn't maintain the disguise convincingly for long. The Sniper's greeting told him that the Pyro took 'his' mask off in front of the Australian, and the Spy couldn't fake what he didn't know. It infuriated him, as well, to know that the Sniper on the opposite team, of all people, knew things that _he_, the Spy, the one whose _job_ was to uncover hidden information, did not know – had failed to discover! On the other hand, he definitely thought twice about killing the Sniper right off the bat. The Spy, unable to resist the lure of top secret information, wanted to see what he could learn from his enemy. He quietly approached, trying to be as silent with the knife as possible, intending to pin his target down and threaten him until he let the secrets slip. What he wasn't expecting was that the Sniper had already identified him as a Spy and was simply waiting for a chance to retaliate.

Mick spun around, whipping out his kukri and slashing the Spy across the chest. "You're not the real Pyro, ya bloody mimic! You think I'm really that easy to fool?" The disguise dropped instantly.

"_Merde!_" the Spy hissed, dropping his attempt on his foe's life. He reached for his pistol as he backed away, trying to avoid the massive knife that was being swung at him. It caught him again, across the arm, as he turned to escape. He tore the blinds away from the window and ducked under the boards across the top, escaping onto the thin ledge and pressing himself against the wall so the Sniper couldn't aim at him with the rifle without being exposed to pistol fire. Plan A had failed miserably, but the Frenchman still had Plan B to fall back upon.

"We're a lot alike, Monsieur Mundy! Both professional assassins – oh, _non_, my mistake; you're more of a _crazed gunman_, aren't you? My apologies." His only regret was that he couldn't see the look on the Sniper's face. He did, however, hear him going through the contents of one of the crates. This was a good time to jump down, while his opponent was distracted. It was lucky for him that he did, because moments later a submachine gun poked out of the window and started to pepper the area he'd been standing in with bullets.

The Spy just laughed, hiding under the cover of the bridge. "Oh, you may tell yourself you're not – that one is a respectable job and the other is insanity – but surely, a man whose preferred method of making a living is messily shooting people in the head _must_ have something _very wrong_ with him. At least _I_ kill with grace and dignity. _Adieu,_ Monsieur Mundy." He smirked as he cloaked and snuck back into his own base.

The damage was done. The Sniper tried to dismiss these words, to write them off as the Spy being a blowhard, but it wasn't just that simple. Once you put an idea in someone's head, you can't take it back. A good argument to which they have no answer, no matter its source, will haunt them. And that was exactly what the Spy intended.


	11. Lunacy

One could easily forgive the RED team for their suspicion and concern that evening, as the Sniper was not acting himself. He was more detached and quiet than usual; one might even say he seemed depressed. The Pyro finally decided to check that this wasn't really the enemy Spy listening in on them, blasting her teammate with a puff of compressed air. Surprised, Mick grabbed his hat to keep it from falling off.

"Hey, what was that about?" he asked, readjusting the hat.

"_Huddah,_" the muffled voice replied.

"Yeah, apology accepted," the Sniper said, returning to his silent apathy. He ignored the fact that some of his allies were staring at him. He was too deep in thought to pay them much attention.

The Scout finally asked, "Yo, Sniper… You okay, man?"

The Australian stood up and didn't even look at the boy as he answered unconvincingly: "…Yeah. No worries." He left without another word, and the rest of the team, understanding that it was none of their business, took the hint.

All except the Pyro. After a moment, she followed him to the bunker. She stopped and checked that nobody else had come up behind her, then took off the gas mask so she could talk some sense into her friend. He was sitting on a box, looking down at the floor. It was getting dark now, but the moonlight filtered in through the blinds and boards, painting the bunker with silver streaks.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Mick replied, not even turning to look at her. No surprise there.

"You're lying," she observed. It was fairly obvious that he wasn't even trying to be convincing. "You've listened to my problems, Mick. Now let me listen to yours."

"BLU Spy got in here somehow," he replied, only half-answering her question.

"And?" Joan folded her arms in front of her chest.

The Sniper looked in the opposite direction. "He said some things that have been bothering me."

The woman frowned. "Why do you care what he thinks?"

"I don't. But what he said just got me thinking," Mick admitted.

"He was probably just trying to mess with your head. What did he say that's bothering you so much?" There was a very long silence, so the Pyro tried to prompt her friend to speak. "Mick. Come on, ignoring me won't make me go away."

Once again, the Sniper gave her only half an answer. "You know, my parents… don't approve of my profession. They say I'm just a 'crazed gunman'. I keep telling 'em, one's a job and the other's mental illness."

Joan looked at her friend sadly. "You're not a crazed gunman, Mick. What brought this on?"

Mick gave a quiet sigh and finally answered her question. "Well, if a man's preferred job is killing people, maybe there really is something wrong with his head, then, eh?" He glanced over at Joan when she didn't reply. "Much as I hate to say it, the Spy had a point, mate. What _is_ the difference? Efficiency? What good does that do? Maybe Dad was right about me; maybe I am just a bloody lunatic."

Joan put her hands on her hips. "_Don't _listen to him! This is _exactly_ what the Spy was trying to accomplish! He's trying to bring you down on yourself so you do more damage to yourself and your own team than you do to his! You're not a lunatic. You're not a crazed gunman! The difference is in _here_ and here alone!" She prodded his chest with one finger. He looked up at her. "The difference is that you _care_, even if you try to tell yourself you don't. I know you don't like to think you have emotions, but you clearly do, and lying to yourself and the world isn't doing you any good. You care about me, don't you?" The Sniper remained silent. He did care, yes, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it, even to himself. The Pyro tried a different approach. "If the Administrator offered to double – no, triple your pay, if you would just shoot me, would you do it?"

"Of course not!" The response was automatic.

"See? You didn't even hesitate. Feelings aren't what make a crazed gunman, Mick. It's not just standards that separate a professional assassin from a rampaging madman. It's loyalty and compassion, too. You may tell yourself you'd shoot anyone for the right pay, but I _know _you – you wouldn't! Your compassion wouldn't let you! You would turn down a job you didn't agree with, and I _know_ you would _never_ betray a friend! A crazed gunman would turn on a 'friend' in a heartbeat for triple pay – but you _wouldn't_. In fact, I'm inclined to believe you would _walk out_ on the Administrator if she told you to shoot me. I don't care what they say – you are a _good man_, Mick! Maybe a bit odd, with your own strange notion of what honor is, but the point is you _have_ a code of honor, not just professional standards. Nobody else understands it, but you _have_ a moral compass, and though you can deny its existence all you want, it's still _there_ and it always will be. You're a knight with your own bizarre form of chivalry, and that's what keeps you from being a monster." Joan looked her friend in the eyes. "_You have a __heart__, Mick._"

After a moment, the Sniper smiled. "Thanks, mate."

The Pyro returned the smile. "That's what friends are for," she said. "They believe in you, when you won't believe in yourself."


	12. Das Einhorn und die Taube

That night, the Scout had yet another dream, stranger and more confusing than the last. It was something of a nightmare, the way it made his gut twist, for it did not take him long to realize what he was seeing.

The sky was stormy and dark; the ground, muddy and miserable. It was cold and wet. There were fences and bare brick buildings, including a large, ominous structure with a huge chimney leaking foul smoke. Scout looked at the gate before him, and the words in black metal stared back at him: 'ARBEIT MACHT FREI'.

He could see people inside the enclosed area, in horrible condition, but he could not see their faces clearly. They were not what he was here to see, and that disturbed the Scout. What could he possibly need to see in a concentration camp, if not the victims? He shivered and passed through the gate without opening it. In this dream, he was like a ghost – invisible and intangible. He could not interact with this foul world, only watch.

A splash of color got his attention. Red hair – it was the little girl again, the one he'd seen in the dream with the acacia tree. Again, she seemed to be above the rest of the world, calm and untouched by the mud and grime around her. She was walking steadily away from the Scout, toward the building with the chimney. Her white dress fluttered lightly, and the black and white roses in her hair bloomed in defiance of their surroundings.

A horse neighed somewhere and the Scout instinctively turned toward the source of the sound, but he wasn't able to find it. When he looked back, the girl had gone. Vanished, or simply moved out of sight. Another whinny rang out, and the Scout moved toward it. Passing brick buildings and fences, he came to a horrible and fantastic sight.

The creature that stood mired in the muck was not a horse but a very angry unicorn. Not the feminine, delicate unicorn of little girls' storybooks; this was the wild, untamable, brave beast of medieval legend. He was cornered, his white fur stained and streaked with filth and blood, whipping his tail about and stomping defiantly, snorting at his attackers. At the center of his forehead was a vivid red cross symbol, from the center of which sprouted his long spiral horn, as capable of hurting as of healing, and with which he put up a valiant fight against the Nazis who had him trapped. A plume of smoke rose up from the chimney of the crematorium and the unicorn reared up with a terrible, desperate whinny. The fight was a stalemate, as far as the Scout could tell.

He looked back and forth between the unicorn and the crematorium. Which one should he be watching? His gut told him to go where the girl had gone, toward the building, and so he went. It was a foul-smelling building, with the stench of death and burning flesh lingering in the air. There was no sign of the girl, but the Scout _did_ see a pure white dove. The dreamer was startled as a Nazi stormed in behind him and roughly grabbed the poor bird. He unceremoniously threw the delicate, innocent creature into an incinerator, and watched it burn to ashes. Just as the man began to chuckle darkly, the flames leapt up, brilliant and blinding. The Nazi tried to shield his eyes from the brightness as the flames took the form of a great bird that the Scout wanted to identify as a phoenix. The Nazi cowered as the mighty fire bird took flight and escaped, up into the heavens. At the same moment the dreamer heard the unicorn cry out again, this time in pain.

Scout returned to its side to find it defeated. The Nazis were gone, as was the unicorn's horn – snapped off at the base. Now, he lay bleeding and broken, but alive: reduced to nothing more than a mere mortal horse.

* * *

It was Saturday morning, which meant that the number code for the intelligence room door was to be changed. This time, it was the Pyro who went down to enter a new code. In the meantime, the Scout needed help deciphering his dream. He sighed, frustrated. He was supposed to be a Seer, but none of his visions lately made any sense! He was having trouble understanding any of them, and they came so rapidly now. What good did they do if they were no longer relevant by the time he figured them out? What was the _point_ in having visions at all?

"Yo, Doc!" he greeted the Medic. "Uh, I got a question."

"Go on," the German said.

"What's 'arbeit macht frei' mean?" the Bostonian inquired, stumbling over the foreign words. He instantly regretted it.

The Medic grabbed the boy's shirt in anger and snarled furiously into his face: "_Never say zhose words to me again, schweinhund! Where did you even-_" He was interrupted by alarms. "Verdammt!" He shoved the Scout away and, still angry, went to help fend off the attack. If BLU thought they could gain the upper hand by attacking in the morning, they had another thing coming.


	13. Speak Daggers, Use None

The Heavy barreled past his two teammates toward the door. "Get behind me, Doktor!" The Medic, still grumbling German curse words, followed after, starting his medigun up. His anger at the Scout could wait.

Scout ran for the other entrance – the sewer. If Medic and Heavy were guarding the front gate, the chances of anything getting through were minimal, especially if the Sniper took his usual place upstairs to provide cover fire. Already the boy could hear the minigun firing.

The teen could hear water splashing ahead of him – it was a good thing he'd come down to cut the invaders off. Being brash as he was, he threw caution to the wind, expecting a straight-up confrontation. He came to the corner room and stopped, peering down the other tunnel – but it appeared to be empty.

All of a sudden his scattergun was knocked from his hands. He spun around, swinging his bat, and knocked the enemy Spy out of his stealth mode. The Frenchman reeled back, then drew his pistol and fired three shots – one missed, one hit the Scout's shoulder, and the third grazed his wrist as he swung the bat again. It connected with the Spy's hand with a crunch and the pistol dropped into the water. Cringing, the assassin readied his butterfly knife and ducked as the boy took another swing. The Spy grabbed the Scout's wrist and brought his knife down across the back of his hand, tearing through the wraps and forcing him to drop the bat.

Blood dripped down into the water as the Spy forced the disarmed Scout into a corner. He held his knife near the boy's throat, but didn't strike. "What's the code for your intelligence room door?" he demanded.

"Why should I tell you? You'll just kill me anyway!" the Scout snapped, trying to bluff through his fear and ignorance.

"If you tell me the code, I'll give you another chance to live," the Spy replied, sounding more annoyed than anything.

"I-I don't know, alright?! I don't know!"

"That's too bad," the Spy replied. He frowned and raised the knife.

"Wait!" The Scout could feel his knees shaking. "Pyro was changing it this morni-"

"You're lying!" the Spy snapped. "Don't waste my time!" The Scout opened his mouth to protest, but the Spy cut him off. "The Pyro couldn't tell the rest of the team what he'd changed the code to!"

"She writes it down!" the Scout blurted out. "I swear I-"

"Wait, _she?!_" The Spy stared incredulously. "Your Pyro is a woman?" He pressed the knife slightly against the Scout's throat and he nodded – as best he could with a blade at his throat – vigorously. There was a pause. "Does your Sniper know this?" Another nod. Scout felt the pressure at his throat lighten. "This explains _so_ much." The assassin had an idea. "Does the rest of the team know?" The Scout shook his head, and the Spy smirked, though his smile vanished when he heard splashing. For reasons known only to himself, the assassin let the boy go. Scout collapsed to the floor as the Spy cloaked and hurried away.

The Scout shakily pulled himself to his feet and reclaimed his weapons as the Demoman came splashing into the corner room.

"What did I miss, lad?"

"Ah, just a little scuffle," the Scout said, trying to stop the trembling in his knees and voice. "No big deal. I scared 'im off." Honestly, if anyone had scared the Spy off, it had been the Demoman, but the Scout wasn't about to let on that he had just been disarmed, pinned to a wall, and pressed for information. He had a horrible feeling, though, that the shit was about to hit the fan.

* * *

That afternoon, the RED team gathered around a map to plan a counter-attack. The Scout couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut that had been there since the skirmish that morning, but he said nothing.

"Why don't we send in Heavy and Medic here, to keep 'em occupied?" the Sniper suggested, indicating a location on the map.

"And hit 'em from behind, goin' through this here corridor," the Engineer added. "Good idea."

"Send in zhe Pyro zhis way," the Medic said. "Zhey'll be trapped."

Then spoke a voice that stopped every heart for a fraction of a second, accompanied by the sound of a cloaking device turning off. "Send in your Pyro? What sort of sick men send a woman to fight?" The entire RED team stared in shock at the BLU Spy, who had apparently been there the whole time. He flicked his cigarette. "What? Did you not know? A petite lady like her shouldn't be in harm's way."

The Sniper was the first to react. "_Get out of here, ya blasted mongrel!_" he shouted, lunging with his kukri. The Spy tried to duck out of the way but he simply couldn't dodge the blade. The kukri tore into his shoulder, slicing muscle and severing arteries. Blood splashed onto the floor and walls as the assassin made a dash for the hallway.

Mick wasn't about to let him get away, oh no. He chased after the fleeing BLU, absolutely furious, but no sooner had he reached the corner than he'd lost track of the Spy.

"Nice try, Monsieur Mundy," the wounded assassin said, uncloaking behind him. He plunged the knife down toward his enemy's back – only to be slammed against a wall by a blast of powerful compressed air. More blood spurted from his shoulder and splashed onto the wall – he needed to get back to his base, to get medical attention.

By this point the rest of the team had snapped out of their shock and were readying their weapons. The Spy took off at a full run, narrowly avoiding the Pyro's flames. He could hear the Heavy's minigun spinning up behind him. The Scout jumped over the table and ran after the Spy a short distance, but couldn't see where he'd gone. The Engineer ran in a different direction – the sound of his shotgun rang out twice, and a few moments later he was back with the rest of the group.

"Dadgum Spy got away! Saw him run back to his base."

The RED Spy just cringed. That hadn't been an attempt to kill anyone, nor to grab the intelligence. The only reason he could think of for his counterpart to act that way, to say what he said, was that he was trying to set the RED team fighting with itself.

He didn't have to wait long.


	14. Patient as the Female Dove

"What do you think you're doing here, little girl?" the Soldier snapped. "Go home! War's a _man's_ world!" He stepped toward the Pyro menacingly, and though she didn't even flinch, the Sniper moved to defend her. Much to his surprise, however, the Medic beat him to it.

The doctor stepped between his teammates as swiftly as a father wolf steps between his pups and a ravenous mountain lion, wielding his syringe gun as threateningly as he possibly could. "_Don't you lay a hand on zhe girl, schweinhund!_" he snarled, jabbing his weapon at the Soldier's face. The American sputtered in shock and stepped back, more intimidated by the Medic's sudden ferocity than the weapon itself.

The Pyro herself seemed unfazed, as she stepped calmly out from behind the protective German, and removed her gas mask. "That's alright, Doc. I can handle this." She glared at her teammates, who were all staring at her in shock. "After all, I'm the same pyrotechnician you've had all along, and being female has never caused any noticeable problems before. Why should it start now?" The Soldier snorted. "Besides," she added, "times change, _right Soldier?_" She folded her arms over her chest stubbornly.

The Engineer spoke up as politely and gently as he could. "He's right, miss. You should probably go on home, for your own sake. Yer papa's probably worried sick about you."

Joan shook her head. "I don't have a dad. Or any family, for that matter. I take care of myself."

"Women can't take care of anything but babies! Shouldn't you have one by your age?" the Soldier said. The Pyro just glared at him, but at this point Mick had had enough.

The Sniper jabbed his teammate in the chest with his finger. "You'd best stop talking to her like that, mate, or I'm gonna have to lay down some Aussie justice…"

"Mick, don't. He's not worth it. Don't let him drag you down to his level."

The Spy intervened before things could get violent. "Gentlemen – ah, and lady – perhaps we should postpone this meeting for the time being." There was a general murmur of agreement. He left the room, and the Soldier, Engineer, and Demoman went with him, leaving the Pyro and her three allies behind. Only the Heavy remained with them.

Joan no longer had to keep up the tough-as-nails act, and her hurt feelings started to show through. She didn't cry or break down in any way, she just looked at the ground sadly. The Sniper would have tried to comfort her but he was too busy aiming a death glare at the Scout, who guiltily avoided making eye contact with him.

"Are you alright?" the Medic asked. She nodded silently. The doctor looked at her thoughtfully and said, "You're a very strong girl, Joan. I respect zhat." There was a very long pause, before he added quietly, "You… You remind me of my daughter."

"You have a daughter?" the Sniper asked without thinking. He should have known better, but he'd just been caught so off-guard that his surprise got the better of him.

The Medic solemnly turned away from his teammates, hands clasped behind his back. "Had… She's dead."

There was a stunned silence. Mick removed his hat as a polite gesture of respect. He cleared his throat awkwardly, regretting his words. "Ah, sorry. I… dunno what to say, mate."

The Medic didn't respond, instead blinking back tears. He turned to Joan and forced a sad smile. "She would have been about your age – she would have turned twenty-seven zhis year."

The Scout immediately thought of his dream, and his face went pale. "What… what happened to her?" he asked cautiously. The German took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down as he pulled up a chair.

"I… don't want to talk in detail about zhis. It… zhis is still very… difficult for me," he said, his voice trembling. He paused, trying valiantly to blink back the tears welling up in his eyes. "My wife, Sofia, and I had only one child – Ophelia. If I could have done anyzhing differently – change even one zhing about my life! – it would have been to get zhem out of Germany before-" The doctor couldn't keep from crying anymore. He sobbed as the tears started to roll down his face.

The Heavy patted his shoulder. "Doktor does not have to keep telling sad story. Is okay." The Medic just shook his head and tried to regain enough composure to keep speaking.

"Zhey… zhey took us to Dachau. When we got off zhe train, zhey tore us apart – Ophelia and Sofia went one way, and I was forced anozher. I- I… never saw zhem again. When zhe Americans liberated zhe camp, I searched and searched but… I couldn't find any trace of zhem anywhere!"

"Well… Um, maybe they survived, and you just couldn't find them!" the Scout offered hopefully. The Medic made a sound that the others couldn't figure out whether it was a scoff or a sob. The Sniper did the mental math – if Ophelia would have turned twenty-seven that year, she would have been only five years old at the end of World War II. He shook his head. There was no way she would have survived.

"Don't be s-stupid. Ch-children were killed on arrival, und… und I met zhe women zhat had been in Sofia's barracks." He lost his voice again for a moment. "Zh-zhey saw her die…!" At this point the Medic broke down completely, weeping pitifully. The Russian just kept patting his shoulder.

Joan was trying not to cry, herself. She didn't know what to do or what to say, so she did the first thing that came to mind – she hugged the German. He needed it.

"Zh-zh-zhank you, m-mein Taube," he managed to whisper through his tears. Not another word was spoken until he'd finally run out of tears to shed.


	15. Magpies

The Scout tried to slip away and hide at the first chance he got after all of that, but it didn't last long – the Sniper was able to track him down fairly easily. He seemed less angry than the Scout would have expected, but then, he couldn't be certain that it was Scout's fault at all that the enemy Spy had learned the secret. In fact, if the boy hadn't looked so guilty, he wouldn't have drawn the Sniper's attention in the first place – who knew _where_ the Spies picked things up?

But that guilty look was a red flag and gave the Sniper a target for his anger. "Where did you slip up, Scout?" he demanded, his suppressed fury boiling just below the calm surface like a riptide. Scout denied the accusation, of course, which only made things worse. "Bullshit! You're skulking about, looking guiltier than a dog that pissed on its master's carpet! You better have a _damn_ good explanation, Scout!"

"He was interrogating me, okay?!" the Bostonian snapped defensively. "It just slipped out! I said 'she' instead of 'he'!"

"_It bloody 'slipped out'?!_" the Australian was incredulous. "Oh, for God's sake! _He's the enemy Spy!_ You don't just let things- You could have spilled _everything!_ _You're a liability to the whole bloody team if ya-_" The Sniper was too frustrated and angry to put words together into proper sentences and gave up. "Gah!"

"Oh yeah, well, who are you to talk?" the Scout replied. "You made the exact same mistake!"

The Sniper completely lost it. "_Do I look like I give a bloody damn?! I swear to God, Scout, if she gets kicked off the team because of this, mark my words, I'll blow the insides of your head across all of Teufort!_"

"It's not a big deal!" Scout snapped, without thinking. It was pure reflex – not only was it a genuinely stupid thing to say, he also didn't even believe it himself.

"'Not a big deal'?! I'm savin' a bullet with your _name_ on it; you'd best _hope_ it turns out not to be a big deal!" Once again, Mick lost the capacity to put his thoughts into words, and settled for a death glare instead.

The Scout shuddered – he felt like those icy eyes could pierce his soul and turn him to stone. It was like being stared down by a basilisk. He gulped and offered a meek apology. "S-sorry…"

"'Sorry' doesn't do us any good, mate! 'Sorry' doesn't cut it!" The Sniper's rage seemed to be running out of steam, or at least he was getting it back under control.

The boy just looked at the ground guiltily, biting his lip and trying to think of something to say. It only took a few seconds, but every moment under that cold stare felt like an hour. "The Administrator's a woman too. She wouldn't – I don't think – kick Pyro off the team for being a girl. Right?"

"Administrator's not the only one who makes those decisions, mate." At least Mick was speaking calmly again. The Sniper rarely lost his temper that badly – and for that, the Scout was _very_ thankful. "You'd best hope she doesn't get sacked over this. If she gets sent away…" He gave a frustrated sigh as he looked away, clenching his fists.

Now that he was no longer trembling in fear, the Scout could see that his teammate was just as distressed as he was. It was just that his fear was for someone else. And the boy actually felt kind of sorry for him. "You two must be real close, huh?" he asked quietly. Poor choice of words, he realized, after his previous taunts about the ambiguous nature of their relationship.

"Scout. _Shut up._ I don't want to deal with that shit right now."

"Naw, I didn't-!"

"_Shut. Up._"

"…Sorry." After a moment he admitted, "I'm… kinda worried about her too."

The Sniper ignored him, instead leaning against a wall and pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes in silence. With his eyes hidden, his expression was impossible to read, beyond simply being 'tense'. There was a long pause before the Australian spoke again, this time quietly, apologetically even. "It's my fault, too. I'm the one who gave you the information in the first place." Before the Scout could come up with a response, Mick turned and left without another word.

* * *

The next day, just before noon, RED gathered once again to launch an attack, though it would take a while to get past the arguments and actually set the plan in motion. Opinions on the Pyro were split evenly through the team: three solidly supported her, three solidly opposed her, and each side had one more supporting their argument for reasons other than personal beliefs.

The Soldier and, to a lesser extent, the Demoman, were citing all sorts of so-called 'facts' about the supposed inferiority of the female sex, ranging from unfounded statements of IQ differences to arguable points about emotionality to mostly-accurate observations on upper-body strength.

"How does zhat make _any _difference?" the Medic said. "She's strong enough to lift her flamezhrower and swing an axe, and zhat's all she needs to do."

The Engineer was more benevolent and well-intentioned, at least. "Well, yes, but women are fragile an' it just ain't right to let 'em get hurt. It's ungentlemanly not to protect a little lady like her."

"_I'm right here,_" Joan reminded him, annoyed that they were talking about her like she couldn't hear them.

"Sorry, miss."

"Also, I find it rather hard to believe that I'd only become 'fragile' and 'delicate' and need men to protect me _now._ That never seemed to have been the case in the past," the Pyro continued. She folded her arms over her chest stubbornly. The Engineer stared blankly for a moment.

"Well, I reckon you're tougher than most ladies but still, it'd be a shame if you got hurt…" he trailed off.

The Spy, unbiased by personal prejudices, supported his more sexist colleagues for what he saw as pragmatic reasons. "_Regardless_ of her ability as a fighter, or the nature of women in general, we must think of the effects of fighting alongside a woman. First, as we can all obviously see, the team doesn't function at its highest with a female known to be in its ranks – we simply don't know how to deal with it. Secondly, we have to remember to take into account what the _enemy_ thinks. Will they still be able to take us seriously when they see a woman as the enemy? We're a team of mercenaries, not a social reform movement. Even if her gender does not directly affect our performance, it may give our enemies a morale boost – and that could be catastrophic."

"Look, mate," the Sniper replied, "if there's one thing the Australian Outback taught me – and one thing they'll learn real fast – it's that just because something looks cute and harmless, that doesn't mean it can't brutally murder you. You learn real quick not to judge deadliness by appearance."

The Scout couldn't resist the opportunity. He smirked, despite knowing he'd regret the statement later. "So… you think she's _cute?_" Mick just rolled his eyes and told him to shut up.

"Admittedly, you walked into zhat one, Herr Mundy," the Medic commented quietly.

"Don't encourage him," Mick said. Then he spoke to the whole team again. "_The point is,_ we never noticed any problems in the Pyro's performance before, and she's still the same Pyro we've had all along. Just knowing what's under the mask shouldn't change any of that."

"Besides," the Scout pointed out, "maybe if they're like some of you guys, they might not wanna hit a girl."

"But she's a _lass_," the Demoman protested. "We'll all look like a bunch a prancin' sissies if we let a lass fight with us!"

"Pyro has been credit to team. Pyro can still be credit to team," the Heavy said. He seemed to be just as afraid of Joan now as he had been before, wary of her. He was probably supporting her only because the Medic was, not that anyone cared.

"Well… Alright," the Engineer said at last.

The Spy nodded. "Okay. We'll give her another chance."

So the team prepared for battle. As they stepped outside, Scout saw a magpie swoop down over the bridge. He smiled; he'd always loved magpies. They were brash, confident, quick, and supposedly they could tell the future. Two more magpies flew over Teufort, as the boy recalled the old rhyme: _one for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl, four for a boy…_ He couldn't tell if what he just saw counted as one and two, or just three, but he could work it out later.


	16. The Measure of a Warrior

The BLU Scout tried to jump from the roof of the bridge to the balcony of the RED base but suddenly found himself moving the other way. He slammed into the ground at the edge of the river and slid partway over the edge. The Pyro hit him with another airblast as he tried to claw his way back up, and didn't even have time to register the look on his face when he saw her without her mask.

The Demoman shoved her out of the way as he went to clash with her counterpart on the bridge. "Go home, lassie, _men_ are fightin' here!" It was not the wisest decision – the BLU Pyro was just as skilled with the airblast as Joan, and easily kept the Scotsman at bay long enough to hit him with the full power of the flamethrower. He retreated in a blind panic, intending to jump into the river. A few scattergun shots rang out as the RED Scout tried to deter the flamethrower-wielding maniac from crossing the bridge, at least buying them a little time.

Just as Tavish was about to jump into the water, a blast of air snuffed out the flames. He shuddered, flesh still stinging, and turned his one eye to the source of the blast.

"You were saying, about men fighting?" Joan asked, not looking particularly amused. The Demoman glanced down at the tip of the flamethrower, still pointed directly at him.

"Eh, forget it. Thanks lassie – yer a wee little Boadicea in th' makin', aren't ya?" he said, trying to lob grenades at the BLU Pyro, still being held off by the Scout at the bridge.

"Hold 'im off just a little longer, boys!" the Engineer called out from just inside the base. "Sentry's almost up!"

"Need a little help here!" Scout called out. He was almost out of ammunition. The grenades were not helping in the slightest. Joan realized it was time to face off with her counterpart. _May the best Pyrotechnican win, _she thought, charging in.

She knew her flamethrower would do little good, since both of them were wearing flame-retardant suits, so she unsheathed her axe and gave her best berserker scream – which turned out to be a lot more unsettling when it wasn't filtered through her mask. Her counterpart readied the same weapon and stood its ground. With a loud crack, the two weapons collided, the BLU Pyro blocking its counterpart's blow. The BLU pushed the weapon forward, shoving Joan back, and took a swing at her, only for her to sidestep the attack. The two were evenly matched, indeed.

Joan attacked again, and the BLU raised the flamethrower with one hand to block the attack with the strong pipe at the top, holding the weapon away and attacking under it with the axe. Joan allowed her axe to bounce off the pipe and stepped back, then lunged before the BLU Pyro was ready to parry again. She was slightly quicker, and that gave her the upper hand. The axe connected and the BLU reeled back. Joan instinctively blinked as a few droplets of blood splashed onto her face. Now, she knew, it was just a matter of finishing her counterpart off. A swift airblast knocked the BLU Pyro off its feet, and the young woman was able to land the killing blow.

Joan looked up, teeth still bared in a snarl or smile, as her focus shifted to the rest of the battlefield again.

* * *

The BLU Scout realized that being knocked into the water might be a blessing. He was unhurt, so he didn't have to retreat, and instead he could try to move up into the RED base through their sewer. He darted right past the defense – the Heavy was much too slow to keep up with him, and with all the corners in the base to use as cover, his minigun didn't do much good.

"BLU Scout in base!" the Russian shouted as the boy darted away. The Scout could hear him down the corridor. He would need to be quick, and that meant not letting the door stop him. Instead of trying to use a code, he was willing to use a more direct method. It would hurt him, but it was better than getting caught by the Heavy. He simply threw himself at the door and swung his bat as hard as he could at the glass in the door. It was thick, but with enough force, he could break through – and he did. Alarms went off left and right, and the BLU just crawled in through the shattered window. It sliced him up, but he didn't care. That's what medics were for, right? He only had one thought: _Grab the intelligence and make like a bat out of hell._

* * *

The Pyro was about to turn back and help her team recover their intelligence, when she saw the BLU Engineer carrying an armful of metal out onto the field. She narrowed her eyes – he intended to put a sentry on the bridge! She couldn't let that happen! She ran toward him and let a stream of flame rush toward the Engineer. He dropped the metal and fumbled for his shotgun. A rocket flew down and struck the ground in front of Joan, and she jumped back with an instinctive cry of alarm. She turned just in time to reflect another rocket back at the Soldier standing on the BLU balcony, which exploded against the wall behind him and embedded some shrapnel in his shoulder. She heard shouts behind her as the BLU Scout dashed out of the base, tailed by his counterpart. There was nothing she could do about it, she was already fighting two people at once. Joan blasted her flamethrower at the Engineer again, and he involuntarily dropped his shotgun to clutch at his hand. He retreated into his base, but Joan still had the Soldier to deal with, and this time she was too slow. The next thing she knew she was lying face down on the ground, her flamethrower several yards away, with a horrible, pulsing pain in her leg, which she suddenly realized was shattered, burnt, and bleeding.

Mick cursed as he missed the BLU Scout _again_. The speedy teen was too fast, too unpredictable – the Sniper could never tell just where he was going to be, much less where to aim. He aimed again, led the target, fired – a glancing blow at best. As he continued to 'chase' his target, he caught sight of the flamethrower, knocked out of its owners hands by the explosion, and immediately the Australian's attention was refocused. In a matter of seconds he'd located Joan and found her attacker. _He _wasn't moving, instead getting ready to fire another rocket. The BLU Soldier never got the chance – his body crumpled beneath an explosion of blood as the Sniper scored a perfect headshot.

The Australian acted on impulse and instinct. His actions were so automatic that they caught even him completely off guard. "Mick, you crazy wanker, what in God's name are you doing?!" the Sniper asked himself as he jumped out the window and ran out onto the battlefield. It was easily the craziest thing he'd ever done.

Joan gritted her teeth as she dragged herself toward the cover of the bridge, trailing blood behind her in the dust. Her mind wasn't on her pain or on fear, no; she was mostly angry. On the same note, when she saw the gleam of a scope on the BLU balcony, her reaction was not to freeze like a deer in front of a truck but to curse.

The BLU Sniper readied his rifle. The Pyro had been enough of a thorn in his team's side, and now she would be an easy kill. It would be good riddance! He peered through the scope – and saw something he _never_ could have expected, and for a moment, was too stunned to believe. For what he found himself looking at, incredibly, was another Sniper's scope.

And at last, fear gripped the Pyro; she stared in shocked horror – as a gunshot rang out.


	17. Persistence

Mick felt a sharp sting in his cheek as the bullet barely grazed his skin. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he pulled the trigger of own his rifle, "you're awful." If his opponent had simply backed away as expected, instead of ducking down as he retreated, the shot would have been dead-on. Instead, it took his hat off. Mick cursed, though Joan was breathing a sigh of relief for his survival. Now he was stuck in a sniping duel, not that he would give his counterpart the honor of calling what he did sniping. _I put myself in your bloody crosshairs on purpose and you still miss. How can you even call yourself a sniper?_ he thought, warily glancing around. His opponent could reappear at any moment from any entrance, and he had to be ready.

"Don't you dare, you bastard!" Joan yelled, and the Sniper heard the distinct popping sound of the flare gun being fired. He immediately turned toward her – she was propped up on one elbow, pointing her flare gun at the other side of the BLU balcony. In the next instant he heard his counterpart cry out about fire and Mick took aim.

"I don't have time for this!" he snarled. Instead of shooting at his fleeing opponent, he fired a couple times at a dangerously loose panel of thick corrugated metal on the wall. It fell down and landed with a resounding thud on the BLU mercenary. Now reasonably sure that his opponent wouldn't be back out to blow their heads off any time soon, Mick put his rifle through the side of his belt so it caught by the scope. It was precarious, potentially dangerous, not to mention bad for the gun itself, and awkward, but these were extreme circumstances and he needed both hands free. "Hang in there, mate," he told Joan as he knelt next to her.

The Pyro cringed in pain as her friend put one hand behind her back and the other under her knees, and lifted her from the blood-soaked dirt. Her leg bent unnaturally, but Joan just gritted her teeth and put her arm around Mick's shoulders for stability. As he rushed her back to the base, a grenade bounced past them and splashed into the river.

"Oh, ye think ye can run away from us, do ye?" the BLU Demoman taunted from behind them, launching more grenades at them.

Joan cursed under her breath and awkwardly put another flare into the gun – it was a difficult task to perform while being carried, but she managed. The Pyro aimed her flare gun over Mick's shoulder as best she could, and miraculously managed to hit the Demoman in the arm, igniting his sleeve. He immediately rushed to dive into the river.

"Persistent little sheila, aren't you?" Mick commented. Joan just grunted in response, trying to ignore the pain.

* * *

Meanwhile the RED Scout had picked up the chase. He'd landed several nasty shots on his counterpart with his scattergun – and taken a few. The two darted through the hallways like a gazelle and a cheetah.

"This town ain't big enough for the two of us, knucklehead!" the RED merc shouted.

"Yeah, so hit the road, bozo!" his counterpart retorted. He dashed into the intelligence room through the still-busted doorway. "Catch me now, slowpoke!"

Scout heard a beeping noise and skidded to a halt. He pulled a 180 and scrambled to get out of the room as rockets slammed into the wall and a storm of bullets rattled against the doorframe. "Shit! Frikkin' sentry!"

* * *

The Medic didn't take long to heal the Pyro's broken leg, and she offered a quick thank you. No sooner had the Sniper put her down than she started back out toward the battlefield. The Medic grabbed her shoulder to stop her.

"What are you doing? It's too late to recover zhe intelligence!"

"I dropped my flamethrower. What am I supposed to do without it?" The German just sighed. That was just their luck.

"Well, alright. I'm going to go make sure zhe sewer is secure. Feel free to join me when you get back. And try not to get hurt again." Joan nodded and started toward the door again.

"Wait," the Sniper said. "At least let me get back up to the bunker and give ya some cover fire. I don't-" he cut himself off.

"Don't what?"

Mick shook his head. "Nothing."

Joan hesitated. "Well, alright. See you in a minute." She turned and walked briskly to the entrance of the base. Mick glanced back over his shoulder at his only close friend as he returned to his usual hangout. _I don't want to lose you._

At the entrance to the RED base, the Engineer's turret watched silently for invaders. Its creator was now working on a dispenser, while his shotgun was propped up against the wall. Just as the Pyro was about to step outside, she made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

"Hey, can I borrow this? Thanks!" Joan didn't wait for an answer; she simply grabbed the shotgun and made a dash for it before the Engineer could protest. "I'll bring it right back!"

Unfortunately, the BLU Scout was back for round two. Joan flinched slightly at the scattergun shot, but responded with a shotgun blast of her own. A rifle shot took a nasty chunk out of the boy's shoulder, and the BLU decided that it just wasn't worth it. He retreated, shouting for his team's Medic. Joan darted across the bridge – good, her flamethrower was still there! She grabbed it and rushed back to the base.

The young woman returned the shotgun to its owner and sighed as, at last, the adrenaline started to fade.


	18. One Life is All We Have

An explosion knocked the Medic off his feet before he could react to the intruder coming in through the sewer; his bonesaw was knocked off his belt and skidded across the floor, he lost his grip on the syringe gun, and his glasses went flying. "_Verdammt!_" the German growled as he tried to pick himself up off the ground. Again, he wasn't fast enough to react – the BLU Demoman kicked him back down.

"That's for costin' me my kill!" the Scotsman snarled. The Medic neither knew what he referred to nor cared; the RED cringed as he was kicked down yet again. "Not so proud now are ye? Not so tough…" It was at this point that the Demoman made a terrible mistake, going too far with his empty boasts. "An' I been _shaggin' yer wife!_"

The Medic shot to his feet with lightning speed and grabbed the Scotsman's left arm before he knew what had even happened. A sickening crunch echoed in the hall as the German demonstrated that any man who knew how to put a human back together could also break him with that same knowledge.

He shouted over the man's howl of pain: "_My wife has been dead for over twenty years, schweinhund!_"

The Medic lunged at the Demoman's throat and struggled against the man's one unbroken arm. Unfortunately for him, the BLU was much stronger and was able to push him away.

"Well good, then! You can join her _in hell!_" The Scotsman landed a solid punch on the Medic's face, and the doctor fell back against the wall, instinctively reaching up to check that his nose wasn't broken. The BLU was only making things worse with his insults, working the German into a fury like a rabid dog.

The Medic ducked under another punch; he heard the Demoman's gasp of pain and the sound of wood splintering, as the man's fist smashed into the planks on the wall. The German recovered his bonesaw, turned, and charged. He didn't pause to assess anything about the situation; no, he simply attacked, snarling like a wolf. The steel blade ripped viciously through muscle, vein, and artery; then again, down into the bone! The Scotsman's arm went limp as the biceps were severed and the triceps torn apart; the Medic knew exactly what he was doing!

He ignored the man's screams of pain as he threw the saw onto the ground and grabbed the BLU by the throat. "_Leave! Sofia! Out! Of zhis!"_ the Medic shouted, repeatedly bashing the Demoman's head against the wall. His words turned to an incoherent rant in snarled German as he beat his enemy viciously against the wall.

* * *

Joan rushed toward the sounds of combat, but by the time she got there it was all over. She looked over the scene before her. The BLU Demoman's corpse lay crumpled by the wall, which was stained with blood dripping down it and soaking into the wood, as well as turning the dirt and sawdust on the floor to a damp crimson muck. The Medic stood by the opposite wall, covered in blood, his labcoat torn. He had one arm up against the wall and was resting his forehead against his wrist, holding his cracked glasses in the other hand.

And it was at that moment that Joan understood why people said the doctor was crazy; why he could sometimes make even the Heavy nervous. She simply stared, as the Medic noticed her presence and looked, moving his head as little as possible, toward her. He almost looked guilty, or sad, but he said nothing.

The Spy was the next to show up. He glanced back and forth between the bloody corpse and his teammate. "_Mon dieu…_" The Spy wasn't shocked by the brutality as much as by who it had come from. The Medic had been known to stick needles in people out of pure sadism, or cut them open to satisfy his twisted curiosity… but to _beat_ a man to death with his hands alone?

As though reading the Frenchman's mind, the Medic gave a very curt, very quiet explanation, almost a whisper: "He insulted my deceased wife." The German regained his composure, and with reflective, somber detachment, dragged the body away to dispose of it. Other members of RED showed up, but the Medic didn't answer any questions – he was actually glad when the Scout showed up, because that redirected the team's attention. The doctor just wanted to be left alone for the time being.

Being a team of mercenaries, the others were more interested in learning what had happened to the intelligence briefcase than they were in what had just happened with the Medic. Curiosity could wait; their jobs had to be done now.

"Where's the intel?" the Soldier asked.

"I… uh, I didn't quite- I couldn't get it back," the Scout said. "They had a sentry up, okay?! Like, with the missile launchers and everything! I almost had it and then, that frickin' sentry starts frickin' _beeping_ at me, and I had to high-tail it out of there!"

"Well…" the Spy said, "it could have been worse." He put his hand on his forehead and sighed. "Actually, it is going to _get_ worse. I have a feeling that things are about to get very… ugly." He glanced over at the Pyro. "If you want to back out and go home, now is the time to do it."

Joan shook her head. "No. I'm sticking with RED to the end."

The Engineer took his hardhat off and scratched his head, as though puzzled. "I reckon I may have been wrong about you, miss…"

"None of you want to – or can – back down now. Why should I? I made the same decision to join this team as the rest of you. I can't go back on that any more than you can, nor would I want to. I stand by my choice." The Pyro stubbornly folded her arms over her chest.

The Spy muttered something in French. "Une vie est tout ce que nous avons, et nous le vivons comme nous croyons en la vivant."

"English, mate!" the Sniper said impatiently.

The Spy just glared at him. "Jeanne d'Arc. I was quoting Jeanne d'Arc." He thought for a moment, quickly translating the quote. "One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it."

The Pyro nodded in agreement and approval. For once, nobody argued with her.


	19. Be All My Sins Remembered

"That was hardly a stunning victory," the BLU Spy said. "Still, it was an improvement. I think we, as a team, could stand to learn a thing or two from today's performance."

"Ya mean before they kill the rest of us off?" the Scout replied, scowling. "Seriously, what was that shit? You guys suck!"

"Shut up," the BLU Medic snapped.

"Why do I have to shut up?" the teen replied. "_I'm _the one who got the intelligence! _Me!_" He gestured to himself with his thumb. "What did you guys do? A whole lotta nothin'! That's what! We're down to freakin' _five!_"

"If Soldier and I hadn't covered for ya, you'da been barbequed, son," the Engineer growled.

The Spy raised his voice. "_Maybe_, if we spent less time _fighting amongst ourselves_, we could turn this situation around!" The remaining members of the BLU team looked at him. "Aside from Scout's admittedly daring attack, what factors led to our recovering their intelligence?"

There was a pause, before their Sniper spoke up. "Scattered defense," he said curtly. He was still seething over his humiliating defeat, and to make matters worse, he had a nasty bruise to show for it, too.

"Exactly. Obviously, we can't fight them with simple brute strength anymore. They've got the numerical advantage." The Spy paused to take a drag off his cigarette. Wisps of smoke escaped his mouth as he continued, "We need a new approach. Given our performance today, I would suggest we try to split the REDs up as much as possible. Now, I've already started to do this. As you may have noticed during the fighting today, that fiery little _monster_ is, in fact, a woman. Naturally, this is… controversial."

"So they've already started fighting with themselves," the Engineer said, rubbing his chin. "A house divided, so on an' so forth."

"And if we can furzher divide zhem into groups…" the Medic said.

"We can weaken them greatly. The simplest solution would be to find a way to physically separate them, especially if those groups are internally divided by opinions. This would have several benefits: it would reduce the number of fighters we'd need to deal with at once, it would weaken those forces through the inevitable disagreements, and it would be a blow to their morale to separate allies. Hopefully, they would even make brash, risky decisions because of it – you saw how their Sniper stupidly put himself in danger for their Pyro. What else might we be able to provoke by splitting the team up? The weakness of RED is its intricate social environment – the whole team could collapse in an instant."

"Ah, I reckon I know what to do," the Engineer replied with a smirk.

* * *

That evening was warm and still, and the RED team had gathered in the hayloft to talk and reflect on the day. They were still feeling the sting of defeat over the loss of the intelligence, but they were making the best of it. They couldn't afford to let it undermine their morale.

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Scout said. "We put up a pretty good fight – I mean, they didn't get the other briefcase, did they? They still only have half the intelligence, right?"

"_And_ we did quite a number on BLU," the Engineer pointed out. "Gunned down _three_ of em. That was a mighty fine job we did today, even if we did lose the briefcase."

"_That's_ what worries me," the Spy said. "After taking heavy losses, they're likely to change tactics. Better the devil you know than the one you don't, I'm afraid."

The Medic frowned. "Can't we worry about zhat _later_?"

"Aye," the Demoman agreed. He looked at Joan. "Here's ta you, lassie – I owe ya one!" he said, and took a long swig of his scrumpy.

"It was nothing, really. I was just doing my job like everyone else. We're all in this together," the Pyro replied.

The Heavy looked at her cautiously, and hesitantly admitted, "Pyro is credit to team."

The Soldier just snorted. "It's her fault we lost the intelligence at all! If she'd gone after the BLU Scout instead of the Engineer, she might have stopped him – but she _didn't!_"

"What, and fight zhree people at once?" the Medic countered, unimpressed. "Be reasonable. It's achievement enough zhat she held her own against two for zhat long."

"And if she hadn't distracted the Sniper, he could have shot the Scout and saved the briefcase!"

"That _is_ a valid point," the Spy agreed, "but as they say, hindsight is 20/20."

"She still cost us the intelligence! An army is like a chain!" the Soldier pointed out. "Its parts are all evenly spaced out behind each other in a line, and it's loud when it moves, and it's only as strong as its weakest link!"

"At least Joan was making herself useful! Yeah, she failed to retrieve the intelligence, but so did the rest of us." The Sniper glared at his teammate. "What were _you_ doing?" The conversation was quickly degenerating into a verbal sparring match, and the rest of the team simply stood by and watched.

"I was fighting at the door!" the American replied indignantly. "Preventing them from getting the other briefcase! Sun Tzu said that 'invincibility lies in the defense', and I was defending – something _you_ failed to do when you jumped out that window, son!"

"It was my decision to make, and I don't regret it."

The Soldier smirked. "Of course not. She's got you trained, son. Trained like a dog!"

"Rescuing a friend in danger isn't training, mate, it's basic human decency," Mick told him. After a moment's pause, he added, "So is standing up for them."

"What are you, her knight in shining armor? I have news for you, Sir Campsalot – you've been pussywhipped!"

The Sniper had had enough of this nonsense. He stood up to leave. "Nah, I'm just secure enough in my manhood that I don't need to belittle women to feel better about myself. Unlike _some_ blokes I know." With that, he went out onto the balcony.

There was a silence before the Medic smugly offered, "Would you like me to treat zhat burn?" The rest of the team tried not to snicker.

Mick stood on the balcony for a while, getting some fresh air. The sky was gold, crimson and purple. As calm and collected as he seemed, he was actually quite annoyed, even angry, and needed to calm down. So it didn't help at all when he stepped into the bunker and saw that _someone_ – and he had a very good idea who it was – had scrawled something on the wall in chalk: a crudely drawn heart, struck through with an arrow and inscribed with 'M.M. + J.G.'.

"Oh, for God's sake; this is getting _ridiculous_…"

* * *

"I think he's got a point," the Scout said. "I don't think you even believe the crap you say to Pyro. You never talk like that to Miss Pauling!"

The Soldier tried to defend his inconsistency. "Miss Pauling stays out of the action, like women should! 'If you cannot win, then you must not fight!' Sun Tzu said that, and-"

"Sun Tzu trained an army of women," the Pyro pointed out. That was all she said, but it struck the Soldier completely silent.

"It's true," the Engineer agreed. "He trained several hundred concubines to prove his theories worked in all situations."

The discussion was interrupted by a shout from outside. "_Scout! Where are ya, ya puckish hooligan!?_"

The Scout practically flew from his position. "Tell him I went outside!" he urged, making a dash for the courtyard and, eventually, the sewer.


	20. Believe in Magic

Mick, unable to track the Scout down, decided it just wasn't worth the effort and went back to clean up the graffiti in the bunker. Once he was done, he sat down by the window and stared out at Teufort. Now that the hours of fighting had passed, it was tranquil, still. Crickets chirped and long shadows stretched across the bloodied dirt and the last sunlight highlighted the world in brilliant gold. The sky was fading from crimson and purple to indigo as the last thin sliver of the sun slipped behind the low, distant hills. The Sniper, finally calming down, let out a sigh, and waited patiently for the first stars of night to appear.

The door creaked slowly open, and the Pyro poked her head in. "Hello?" she said, very quietly, hesitantly. That wasn't like her at all.

"Joan? Is something wrong, mate?" Mick asked, turning toward her in concern.

The Pyro answered unintelligibly as she shut the door behind her. She sat down on the floor next to one of the larger crates and nestled into the corner between it and the wall with her knees up against her chest.

Mick stood up and pulled the box he'd been sitting on to the other side of the bunker, closer to her, then sat down again, facing her with his arms resting on his knees. "Did the Soldier say something…?"

Joan didn't look up from the floor, but started playing with a cigarette lighter, flicking it on and off. "It's nothing in particular," she replied quietly. She noticed the paper label attached to the crate she was leaning against – _'HUNTSMAN, product of Mann Co.'_ – and started burning the corner of it with the lighter. "Sometimes it's just… hard to keep going. Maybe he has a point after all. Maybe I am too weak for this…"

She glanced up only when Mick gently took the lighter out of her hands to keep her from accidentally starting a fire. "That's what I said about the Spy's words, too, and I'm going to tell you exactly what you told me: don't listen to him."

Joan's voice wavered for a moment, as though she were about to cry. "But I failed in front of the whole team!" She paused for a moment and steadied her voice. "_I _lost the intelligence. I could have gotten it back – I was closest – but I didn't. You were counting on me and I failed."

"That was a perfectly reasonable decision at the time, mate. You were just doing what you thought would be best," the Sniper pointed out. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"But it just seems like when a man fails at something, people say _he's_ incompetent, but when a woman fails at something, they say _women_ are incompetent. And sometimes I just can't help but wonder if maybe there might be a reason for that…"

The Sniper thought for a moment before replying. "Have you ever heard the saying that if you tell a lie enough times, people start to believe it? And if you start believin' it, it starts being a self-fulfilling prophecy. Well, we've been tellin' some lies for centuries now. Is it any wonder everyone believes 'em?" He paused. "What I'm trying to say is, you can't internalize these things, because then… well, then the battle is already lost."

Joan was very quiet for a while. "You had to rescue me. I wasn't able to take care of myself. I needed you to come rescue me. Just like they say women always do."

Mick shook his head. "_Everyone_ needs to be rescued once in a while. Why do you think we have a medic? Because we all need help sometimes. We're a _team_ for a reason, mate. The fact that you need backup sometimes doesn't mean that you're a failure, or that women are inferior, or that you're holding us back, it just reflects the need for cooperation and teamwork. If we didn't need anyone else, why would the Administrator have hired all nine of us?" The Pyro finally lifted her eyes and looked at him. "Yeah, you'd be dead without me. But you know what? I'd be dead without you, too, Joan."

Joan just looked at him silently, then nodded slightly. She looked away, as though lost in thought, before asking, "Do you ever feel like you're holding the team back?"

The Sniper looked around cautiously. When he was certain that nobody but the Pyro would hear him, he admitted, "To be perfectly honest with ya… there are times I feel useless. Like I'm a disgrace to my job." He looked away guiltily for a moment. "And I admit it, today was one of those days. I was feeling pretty terrible about not being able to hit that Scout today."

"You're not useless, Mick… You saved my life today. Without you I would have been a goner. Not to mention, I don't think I could have made it this far without your support. You're always here for me when I need you."

"And yet I felt useless. Just like you do now. Well, let me tell you something, mate: I'm not useless, and neither are you. I was responsible for losing the intelligence as much as you were, but I don't blame you, and you don't blame me. We can't blame anyone in particular. We just failed as a team today, plain and simple." He looked out the window. "Look," Mick told her, and Joan did. "The stars are starting to come out. Ya know… life has its ups and downs – its light times and dark times. You can't stop that."

The Pyro suddenly understood where the Sniper was trying to go with this. "Yet, you can only see the stars in the darkness of night," she said.

"_Exactly. _Even when it seems like all the light, all the hope, has gone away, it's still there, if you know where to look." He stood up. "If it makes you feel any better," he added, "most of our teammates don't blame you, either. You're a lot more accepted around here now than you think you are. Ask them." He smiled reassuringly.

Joan lifted her head; she couldn't help but return the smile. She finally looked like she'd had some hope restored. "Thank you, Mick. This means a lot to me."

"That's what friends are for. They believe in you, when you won't believe in yourself." The Sniper held his hand out to her to help her up. "Now cheer up and stop sulking on the floor. You're above that." The Pyro took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. "No worries, alright?"

Joan smiled at him and nodded. "No worries."

"Good."


	21. To Thine Own Self Be True

The early-morning chatter died down as the mercs looked over the unexpected visitor standing in the doorway. Was this good news or bad news?

"Hey Miss Pauling! How are you doin' this morning?" the Scout greeted her enthusiastically. "Nice of you to pay me a visit!"

"Actually, Scout, I'm here to meet with the Pyro. I'm sure you understand," the young woman replied. Scout just looked crestfallen, but she paid him no mind.

"Oh… hello…" Joan said, not sure how she should feel about this. She became even more unsure when Miss Pauling smiled warmly and asked her if she would mind talking in private for a few minutes, but she reluctantly agreed, and the two women stepped aside.

"You don't need to look so worried, Pyro," Miss Pauling assured her. "We're not docking your pay or firing you or anything like that." Joan seemed to relax a bit. "The revelation of your identity has caused quite a stir hasn't it? The Administrator has found the whole ordeal quite fascinating."

"Is that… good?"

Miss Pauling just shrugged. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I approve of what you're doing. This is sort of a milestone for Mann Co., you see. We've been wondering for a long time whether we should start hiring female mercenaries, so this revelation was quite timely."

Joan just sighed and looked at the floor, feeling a heavy burden on her heart. "When I realized I was sort of representing all women here, I had no idea it was quite that literal."

Miss Pauling frowned. "No pressure, Pyro. I don't want you thinking our decisions hinge on your performance alone. The Administrator is much more thorough and calculating than that." That wasn't exactly encouraging, either.

"How many women are in the management, besides you and the Administrator, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential information," Miss Pauling replied apologetically. "But what I can tell you is that you are the only woman actually out on the battlefield, and the Administrator and I wanted to welcome you as such. A bit late perhaps, but there you have it. We think that what you're doing is very important, and not just for Mann Co. It's a step towards equality."

"Everyone has to do their part," Joan agreed. "It's never much, but every bit counts. And we go through hell for it."

"We're fighting centuries of built up hatred and oppression. It's woven into the culture, I'm afraid, and we have to undo it stitch by stitch. It's not easy," Miss Pauling said with a sage nod. "Things aren't going to change overnight, unfortunately."

"We've come a long way though, haven't we?" the Pyro pointed out.

"Oh, absolutely! We have a long way to go, still, but we're making progress."

"I should thank you, too, Miss Pauling. For doing your part."

The woman in purple nodded. "I felt hopeless, growing up. Like my future wasn't my own to control. It was hard, resisting the culture around me that told me all I needed was a house, children, and a husband. I didn't want that, and I couldn't understand why."

"I know exactly how you feel," Joan said, nodding. "It hurts, doesn't it? The whole world telling you that you should only want one thing in life because you're a woman, and if you don't, if you dare to be different, there's something horribly wrong with you."

"Exactly. And I didn't understand it – I didn't understand myself. When I read _The Feminine Mystique,_ it all fell into place. It was like having blinders taken off," Miss Pauling said. "I'd taken my job at Mann Co. temporarily. I mean, that's what young women were expected to do – just get a simple job to keep us afloat until we get married. But after reading that book, it gave me the courage to _do_ something with my life. So I turned my temporary job into a career, and I plan to stay here. I don't regret it."

"I wouldn't either. Especially working for Mann Co. It's… a lot better than many other companies, as far as opportunities for women," Joan agreed.

Miss Pauling nodded. "With the Administrator in charge, there's no glass ceiling. How she got such a position of power in the first place, I don't know. I don't plan to ask. But because of her I've had opportunities to do more with my work than just greet people at a front desk or fetch coffee all day. We're lucky to work here."

"There are times I don't feel so lucky. There are times it's… tough. But you're right. We're better off here than in a lot of other companies. Do you really think we're making a difference?"

"A small one," Miss Pauling admitted. "But isn't a beach made up of tiny grains of sand? The smallest things can add up to something huge." She looked at her watch. "Oh! Sorry, I have to go. Anyway, I wanted to thank you and encourage you, Pyro. And wish you luck, as well. You're doing something meaningful, and you should feel proud."

"You too, Miss Pauling!"

Miss Pauling left with a warm and fuzzy feeling, and a new glimmer of hope in her heart.

* * *

As morning shifted to afternoon, some members of the team started focusing on strategy, while others continued resting. Joan decided to find Mick. She didn't have any particular reason to, but she enjoyed his company. Naturally, the first place she looked was the bunker, and while he _was_ there, he was not keeping watch, as she would have expected. Instead, he was sitting on a box in the corner with a pad of paper and a pen.

He glanced up. "G'day. What'd Pauling want? Everything alright?"

Joan smiled. "Everything's fine. She just wanted to talk and offer some encouragement."

"Good. I was a bit worried," the Sniper replied. "I never know what to expect when she shows up. You feeling better today?"

The Pyro nodded. She sat down on a crate next to him. "What are you doing?"

Mick grinned, rather sheepishly. "Slacking off," he admitted, with a hint of shame in his voice. Joan just laughed. "Writing, actually," he clarified. "Bad science fiction. It's something of a guilty hobby of mine."

"I'm sure it's not _that_ bad. Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Why not?" He handed it to her and waited patiently while she read it, occasionally glancing out the window to see if anything was going on.

After a while, Joan handed the pad of paper back to Mick. "You should publish a novel," she told him. "Your writing is better than you think it is."

"Eh. Maybe someday," he replied.

The Pyro looked out the window. "Thanks again, for your support. You're always there for me when I need you."

"You'd do the same for me, I'm sure," the Sniper replied.

Joan turned to smile at him and was caught off-guard. She knew what she was seeing wasn't there, and she tried to ignore them, despite how solid and _real_ the wings folded neatly behind Mick's back looked. She could see every feather, clear as day: pale tan banded with brown, resembling the wings of the red-tailed hawks that sometimes circled over Teufort, watching and striking from afar like angels of death. The Pyro looked away and tried to act normal. If she ignored the hallucinations, they would go away.

"You alright, mate?" the Sniper asked.

"I… just… Give me a moment, please." Joan shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she looked back, the wings were gone. "I'm alright now. I was just having a mild hallucination."

"Seeing angels again?" Mick asked, remembering what she'd told him that night when they were looking at the stars.

The Pyro hesitated for a moment before replying, "Well… Something like that."

* * *

_Thank you to TheRavenBlade for the basic ideas for some of the animals used as motifs (the hawk, and one in a later chapter)._


	22. Exchange Forgiveness With Me

Joan smiled at her friend, dispelling his worries. She looked out the window. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Mick shrugged. "Sure. It's going to get really hot out, ya know." After a moment, he added, "I'm used to it. It's like that in the Outback too – blisteringly hot all the time. I like it that way."

"It rains a lot where I'm from," Joan replied matter-of-factly. Mick just laughed quietly.

The Australian put his paper and pen on a crate, picked up his rifle, and moved to his usual spot near the window to keep watch. It was quiet so far. BLU didn't seem interested in attacking just yet, and the Sniper was totally fine with that. He was enjoying his calm, quiet morning – and getting paid anyway!

The Pyro didn't mind either. She was just enjoying her time with Mick. "Did you really mean what you said last night? You know, about… the team accepting me."

"Course I did, mate," the Sniper replied cheerfully. "Did you really think a group of three Yanks, a Soviet, a German, an Aussie, a black Scotsman, and a Frenchman could afford to discriminate? I mean, sure, Soldier's a stubborn arse, but didn't you and Scout toss a few verbal bombs last night? That oughta shut him up for a while – or for good, if we're lucky. And the rest of us – well, you've proven yourself pretty well, Joan. I mean, yeah, it's new to a lot of us, fightin' alongside a woman, but I think most of us are trying our best to be accepting."

The Sniper's contented smile faded slowly when the Pyro didn't respond. He stopped and looked over at her in concern and curiosity. Her expression was pensive and emotionally neutral, her gaze directed at the floor.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell," she said. "Whether people are trying to be accepting or not. Whether the sexism is accidental. Sometimes people don't notice the little things – when they're passively discriminating. Even if they have good intentions." The Australian nodded in acknowledgement, and Joan was silent for a moment. "You've said some pretty sexist things yourself, Mick."

"What?! I- When? When did I say anything of the sort?!" Mick lowered his rifle and turned to face his friend.

"You used to – before you knew I was a woman – you used to call your enemies women like it was some kind of insult." The Sniper looked like he'd just been slapped in the face. "You know… 'Oh, got ya right in the ovary'? 'Thanks for the warm-up, sister'?"

There was a stunned silence. "I… didn't even think of that. I didn't realize I was even…"

"That's what I mean," Joan said. "People don't even realize when they're doing it."

"I'm sorry, mate. That musta been awful, hearing me say things like that."

"You've stopped saying things like that, I've noticed," Joan said, still looking down.

"I should hope I never will again," the Sniper replied. "I really am sorry, mate."

"It's alright," the Pyro replied quietly. She lifted her gaze from the floor without moving her head, and looked at him. There was no need for words. Just from looking into her eyes, he knew what she was saying: _I forgive you._ He nodded slightly at her.

As though that one apology had been a dam breaking, he continued. "And while we're on the subject of apologies, well… Something's been bothering me for a while now. I just want to admit to you, that I broke my word to you."

"What?"

"Scout learned your name from me. And it was from him that the Spy learned it. It's… my fault your secret was revealed." He looked away from her in shame. "It slipped out! I didn't even realize it until after I'd said it." He sighed. "So much for bushman's honor…"

"Mick…" Joan said, voice barely above a whisper, "Look at me." He did as he was told, guiltily, but the Pyro's gaze held no malice or anger. "You're only human. You said it yourself: everyone makes mistakes. You didn't mean to break your promise; what matters to me is that you did all you could to remain true to your word. I'm not mad at you."

"You're a better person than I am, Joan," the Sniper told her. "I could not forgive like you do."

"You're better than you think you are." Joan smiled a bit. "I think you could forgive me, were our roles switched. I know you have that much in your heart."

Her smile was contagious, as it had spread to him, just a hint of a grin. "Thank you, Joan." He lifted his rifle again and rested the barrel on the windowsill, and turned his attention to the empty battlefield. "Anyway, what I was sayin' was: you do your job well. You've done it well, you do it well now. No point in treatin' ya different _now_ just because they know you're a sheila. Bit late for that, isn't it?" He chuckled.

"Good point," the Pyro agreed.

"Still, it's probably a good thing you hid it so long. Gave 'em all a chance to accept you as a merc before having to accept you as a woman."

"Thank you, for accepting me right away. I was… afraid," Joan admitted.

"I understand," the Sniper told her. There was a pause. "Uh, listen, mate…" Mick hesitated. "Actually, nevermind." He shook his head.

"Do you have something else to apologize for?"

"No. It's just something else I've been thinking about. But I haven't got any right to talk about it."

Joan shrugged. "Alright then. Let me know if you change your mind. I'm always willing to listen."

"I know you are, mate. And thanks, for that."

"You would do the same for me."

* * *

The Pyro had things she needed to take care of, so she'd left for the time being. In the empty silence that followed, especially on a calm day like this, the Sniper had time to think deeply on the idea that had been troubling him for a while. Finally, he decided to go talk to the Medic about it. He put his gun on a crate and left his post. It didn't look like BLU was going to launch any attacks any time soon, anyway.

The door to the Medic's office was slightly ajar – not open wide enough for the birds to get out, but not entirely shut either. Mick tapped the door lightly a couple times. "Doc? You there?" There was no response, so he carefully opened the door and peeked in. The Medic didn't seem to be in at the moment, but things were not as neatly organized as usual, so he figured the German would be back in a few minutes. He stepped in and, without looking, gave the door a push so it would go back to its original position.

Archimedes was perched on an open drawer, and some small objects were on the counter nearby. Medical handbooks and the like? The Sniper's curiosity got the better of him and he walked over, startling the dove away. The bird flew off over the Australian's shoulder.

Mick could now see the objects more clearly: a worn, German copy of _Frankenstein_, a slightly yellowed newspaper clipping from four years prior about a Chinese scientist who had managed to clone a carp. Of the three objects on the table, the one that _really_ caught the Sniper's attention was an open journal with tattered pages, written in German and illustrated with black ink. With a start, Mick realized that the journal was an experiment log, and the image depicted a very early prototype of the medigun, aimed at a frog lying limply on its back.

Without touching anything, the Sniper looked into the open drawer. Inside were two more very interesting items. The first was a lock of bright red hair, tied far too tight with a torn silver ribbon. It looked as though the ribbon had snagged on something, gotten caught, and instead of coming free, pulled tight around the hair and ripped it out by the roots. The second object stopped the Australian's heart for a moment.

It was a photograph, black and white, in a worn frame and under cracked glass carefully glued back together. The tall, dark haired man in the picture was very clearly a much younger Medic, in his mid or late twenties. He had his arm around a beautiful woman in a pale dress, with long, dark hair, though not as dark as the Medic's. And between them was a little girl, no more than four or five years old, with big bright eyes and light hair. She had a white dress, and a pale rose tucked behind her ear. The picture must have been taken not long before the Medic's family had been carted off to Dachau.

Suddenly it all fell into place. Mick looked at the picture, the hair, and the journal with such understanding that it was as if he could suddenly read German. "Oh… Is _that_ what you've been trying to do, all this time…?" the Sniper whispered. "You poor crazy bastard… You really are heartbroken, aren't you?"

Then he realized he had absolutely no right to be poking through these things. Mentally scolding himself, he stepped back and looked away.

The door creaked, and Mick turned. The Medic stepped in with a cup of coffee or tea, and several expressions crossed his face: shock, anger, worry, surprise. "Herr Mundy?! What-"

"I came here to talk with you about somethin', Doc. Hope you don't mind," the Sniper explained quickly.

"Were you looking zhrough my zhings?!" the German demanded angrily, putting his cup down on the counter.

"Well, I couldn't help but glance! I'm sorry. I didn't touch anything."

The Medic glared at him for a moment, but sighed and started putting his things back in the drawer. "Scheiße. I should have known better zhan to leave my personal belongings out like zhat. Alzhough I wasn't expecting you to come _poking your nose in zhings._"

"I didn't realize they were personal until I'd already looked."

"And zhat's zhe only reason I'm not furious right now, Herr Mundy. I can forgive you zhis one time…" he trailed off.

"Well… actually. It's appropriate that I saw what I did. It… It's sort of related to what I wanted to talk to you about." The Medic paused and looked over at the Sniper with one eyebrow raised.


	23. Identity Issues

"_Feminism, like Boston, is a state of mind._" – Rheta Childe Dorr

* * *

So little seemed to be happening that day that the Pyro was able to leave her post and make herself a cup of tea, and still missed absolutely nothing. She and Scout were in the intelligence room, half-heartedly guarding the briefcase. There wasn't much else to do, at any rate.

"Slow day, huh?" Joan said, sitting down near the intelligence. Her flamethrower was leaning against the wall next to her.

"Yeah," Scout replied. He was leaning back with his feet up on the desk. Pyro didn't bother to scold him. "Man, I wanna bash some frickin' heads in! I'm so _bored!_"

"I don't know," Joan replied. "It's kind of nice having a day to rest."

"But doesn't it feel, I dunno, like… the calm before a storm?"

Pyro shrugged and silently sipped at her tea.

"How can you drink that stuff?" her teammate asked. "Eww."

"I think the same of BONK!, you know. To each their own," Pyro said.

"Yeah, I guess not everyone can have taste as good as mine," Scout admitted. Joan rolled her eyes.

"Whatever you say, Scout."

The Scout went on about his great taste in drinks, music, and everything else, but Joan just half-listened, nodding and occasionally responding with an 'mm-hmm' or an 'interesting'. Sometimes Scout said things that actually were worth hearing. At least she let him talk and paid _some_ attention, though it couldn't be said that she was truly _listening_. Still it was something; most of their teammates just told Scout to shut up.

"And you know, you actually frickin' _listen_ to me, or at least you mostly listen," Scout said. "That's pretty smart of you, ya know? Not everyone recognizes how awesome I am."

"Mm-hmm."

"Man, you might as well have never taken the mask off," he teased.

Joan finished her tea and put the cup aside. "What do you mean?"

Scout just imitated her wordless acknowledgements, and she laughed, getting the point.

"Can't believe I used to be afraid of you," the boy said. "I can hardly imagine I used to see you as a freak. I mean, I guess I just didn't – couldn't – see you as a person. You were just a… faceless monster. But now I see you for what you are, you know?"

"Well, what am I, then?" Joan asked. "If you can see it, tell me who I am, because I honestly haven't a clue."

Scout bit his lip and thought for a few moments. "I see Jeanne d'Arc. A strong woman who fights to change things for the better."

"A pity she didn't have a flame-retardant suit like mine," the Pyro replied. The Scout laughed quietly.

"Seriously, though, I admire your toughness. I mean, obviously _I'm _that tough, but it's not every day I meet someone else who is. And I don't have to put up with the crap you have to deal with 'cause you're a girl, so it's pretty cool that you just keep goin' anyway. Ma always told me we gotta follow our hearts even if it means going through hell, and you do a pretty good job of that."

"You really love and respect your mother," Joan observed. "That's refreshing to see."

"What do you mean by that? 'Course I love my Ma!"

"But you don't just love her, you listen to her. You seem to genuinely see her as a valid authority, and not just an emotional core of the family. That's different – in a good way." It was a fair bet that Scout's father hadn't played much of a role in his life, from what Pyro could gather. Joan couldn't help but wonder if being raised with his mother as the head of the family had anything to do with the Scout's willingness to accept women in positions of power. Despite his very strong tendency to sexualize pretty women, he generally respected them as people, too, and often dismissed restrictive gender roles. She would never have imagined she'd find a staunch ally in the young wannabe-Casanova, but she had.

Scout seemed to be confused by this. He took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, resting his hands on his bat. "Anyone who could raise me an' my seven crazy brothers deserves respect. She couldn't have done that if she was weak – and anyway, she's _my_ Ma. I mean, you don't get a thoroughbred from bad stock, right?"

Joan just chuckled. Scout's logic was insane at best, but at least it produced favorable results. "I suppose she must be the source of your respect for female authorities."

"Yeah, I guess so. If Ma could be strong and independent, why can't another woman? I mean, chicks usually _aren't_, but they _can be._ Like Miss Pauling. Or you." He paused. "I'm not sayin' I support crazy feminists or anything, of course."

Pyro sighed. Oh, God, not another one. "_I'm_ a feminist. So is Miss Pauling, if you want to know." She knew where this was going.

"Wait, _what?!_" Scout started laughing. "No way – you don't hate guys! You gotta be joking, right?"

"I think you've misunderstood, Scout, what feminism is. It's not about angry lesbian man-haters throwing bras in bonfires and not shaving their legs. It's a common misconception." She paused. "Although," she admitted," I _have_ burned a couple bras, but, you know… pyromania." She cleared her throat. Probably too much information there. "Anyway."

"Right…" the Bostonian said slowly. "So what _is_ it, then?"

Joan stopped and thought for a moment on how to best articulate the essence of feminism in words. "It's the belief that the differences between men and women are not significant enough to determine what they can or should do with their lives, or change how they are treated by others."

"_Really?_ Is that really all it is?"

"Yep. Granted, there _are_ crazy man-haters out there. But we don't like them either."

Scout sat there with his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his hand, looking quite deep in thought. After a few minutes he asked, "Can _guys_ be feminists?"

"Absolutely. And we need them to be. How could men and women hope to reach equality if men couldn't believe in that equality? Prejudice is ended by converting the oppressors, not simply rallying the oppressed."

"Huh." Scout was quiet for quite some time. It was a brain-bending idea; difficult for him to accept and at the same time impossible for him to argue against. By the definition provided, yes, he was a feminist. What a bizarre thought! He tried the words out under his breath: "I am a feminist. Huh." It felt like speaking Greek. "Wow, that's… huh." Then a new thought occurred to him.

Joan sighed. She knew just from the look on his face – the sense of a lightbulb turning on – exactly what he'd just thought of. Knowing Scout, he was probably going to use this new facet of his identity in an attempt to impress girls. Well, it could have been a lot worse; at least he was with the spirit of the thing. Pyro decided to derail that train of thought. "If it helps, you're not the only one. I'm fairly certain the Medic is a feminist too, and the Sniper – though I don't think they'd identify themselves as such and would probably object to the label."

Unfortunately for Joan, she derailed him too much. Scout smirked. "Yeah, speaking of the Sniper… What's up with you two, anyway?"

"He's the best friend I've ever had," the Pyro said, hoping that would be enough of an answer. It wasn't, of course.

"_Friend,_ right…" When Joan rolled her eyes, the Scout continued. "Oh, come on, Pyro! It's obvious he's got a thing for you! Don't you like him back?"

"I don't feel that this is the right time in my life for me to be pursuing romance."

"Man, way to dodge the question!" Scout said, clearly frustrated.

"Mick and I are just friends, end of discussion."

At that point Scout lost all semblance of maturity. "Pyro and Sniper, sitting in a tree!"

Joan stared incredulously, then put her hand over her face and shook her head. "Wow, Scout. _Wow._ And I was just beginning to think you were starting to grow up…" She considered asking him why he was so desperate to see her and Mick together, but decided that would only make things worse.

She saw motion out of the corner of her eye, and looked toward the door. Archimedes had flown in through the hole in the door's glass. The dove sailed across the room and landed on Joan's knee, cooing.

"How did you get out here?" the Pyro asked, scooping the dove up in her hands. Archimedes tilted his head. "You shouldn't be flying around out here. You could get hurt. Come on, let's get you back to the Medic."

* * *

"_Mein Gott,_ why did I not see zhis before?" the Medic said. "All zhis time…"

"I can't prove anything, Doc. I don't want to get your hopes up too much," Mick said. "But the pieces all fit into place, so it's certainly possible."

"Yes, yes, I know, Herr Mundy. But… It's just impossible for me not to get my hopes up – and at zhe same time, I can't believe it. You would not understand." He was right. The Sniper couldn't understand. How would he possibly be able to understand how it felt for a father to hear that the little girl he never got to see grow up might be alive and well, despite all odds? It was beyond what he could wrap his mind around.

The conversation was interrupted as someone knocked on the door. "Ja?" the Medic answered wearily. The door creaked open and Joan cautiously entered, Archimedes tucked into the crook of her arm.

"Sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but your dove got out." There was only silence. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is something wrong?"

The Medic and the Sniper just looked at each other, then turned back to the Pyro. The German stood up and adjusted his glasses.

"Ah, Joan. Hm…" He paused. "Zhere's… no easy way to say zhis." He looked, several times, like he was going to begin speaking, and decided against it. Finally, he said, simply: "I will need to run some blood tests on you…"

"What? Why?" the Pyro replied, letting Archimedes step off her arm onto a shelf.

There was a very awkward silence. Joan turned to Mick, but he was avoiding eye contact.

"Well," the Medic answered, "Joan, _mein Taube…_ Zhere's a possibility I might be your fazher." Joan stared blankly.

"I know Ophelia supposedly died in Dachau," the Sniper explained quietly, "but so many things line up that I started thinking…"

"I… don't understand." The Pyro just stared with an expression the other mercs couldn't read.

"You would be the same age, you have the same hair color, the same eye color. You were adopted as a little girl from a place your adoptive dad didn't want to talk about. He was an American soldier – and Dachau was liberated by American forces."

"Children will killed on arrival, though," Joan pointed out.

"Who's to say one little girl might not have slipped under the Nazis' radar? It's a million to one chance, mate, I admit that much. But it's _possible._"

"Zhey didn't tattoo prisoners at Dachau, eizher. At least, not while I was zhere."

Joan sat down on the nearest table in shock. She wasn't sure what to think or feel.

"I… was going to explain this earlier," Mick said apologetically. "I thought it should be the Medic's choice to tell you, though."

The German put his hand on the Pyro's shoulder. "I need to compare our blood. It won't prove anyzhing – unfortunately it's not possible to do zhat, not wizh our current level of technology. But, it can rule it out. If zhere's any possibility… I must know. You understand?"

"I… would like to be your daughter. You've been like a dad to me…"

The Medic just nodded in silent understanding.


	24. A Sword Lily by Any Other Name

The Medic had seen this before; the calm, quiet stoicism in response to what really should have been quite disconcerting. Patients did that at particularly harsh revelations, so he recognized it in Joan. Even so, he had to remind himself of this – it was more emotional for him than it was for her, not because she didn't care, but because the poor girl was in shock. She couldn't really wrap her mind around it, and he understood that. Hell, it was hard for _him_ to grasp it.

After the revelation, Joan had gone very quiet, very distant, and she stayed that way the whole day. It was starting to look like it was for the best that BLU had been docile that day – Joan would not have fared well trying to fight in the dazed state she was in. It had been a quiet day for most of the team, yes, but for some, it was downright stressful.

The Pyro had been hiding from her teammates – even the Sniper, which was very unusual. So it was natural that the doctor should worry about her, and began to wonder if telling her was the wrong thing to do – especially if the blood test disproved any connection. Still, didn't she have a right to know?

As the sun lowered in the sky, there was still no sign of her in the RED base. The Medic finally decided enough was enough, and went to find her, despite having _insisted_ that the Sniper _not_ do just that. It took a good while for him to find her, quite far from the base, with her back to a rock and her knees up against her chest, staring at the horizon.

"Ah, zhere you are. We were worried about you," the German said quietly. Joan didn't react. "Are you alright?" Still, the Pyro did not respond. "Joan…" The doctor looked at her sadly, and after a moment's consideration, sat down next to her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. They remained there in silence, the Medic feeling increasingly guilty, Joan practically detached from the world. She simply continued to stare at the horizon as the sky went orange and the sun painted the clouds crimson.

"I've… never really had a family," the Pyro said suddenly. As long as she could remember she was an orphan. Orphanhood was just a fact of her life, like her red hair. Yes, she'd been adopted, and there was nothing wrong with that – adopted children could be perfectly happy and loved, too. But what she had could hardly have been considered a family in any sense.

"You said you were adopted. Zhat's a family, too."

"A shell-shocked, suicidal veteran estranged from the rest of his living relatives is hardly a family. He loved me as his daughter, but…" Joan was finding it hard to breathe regularly, so she trailed off.

The Medic just nodded in understanding. He thought he was beginning to get why she had gone numb, though she began to explain it anyway. Who wouldn't be confused, distant, and upset in her situation?

"I didn't get to have a… happy, normal childhood. There were no Christmas gatherings, no big birthday parties, no Thanksgivings. I mean, I wasn't suffering or anything. But I guess I was always a bit jealous of my classmates." The Pyro's lip quivered. "I don't even know what having a real family is like! And now, all of a sudden, not only am I told a colleague might be my biological father – I mean… _How do I react to that?! _I can't even begin to…" Joan sniffled and blinked back tears. She abandoned that train of thought and skipped to something else. "After _my_ childhood, I'm being told I might have had a perfect, loving family in Stuttgart until Hitler ruined everything?!"

The Medic patted her shoulder, seeing her becoming increasingly upset. It was sinking in now, and hurting her just as much as him. Regardless of the outcome of the blood test, they were both painfully aware that lost time could never be recovered. Joan would never get the childhood she'd wanted back, and the Medic would never get to watch his little girl grow up: never teach her to read, never see her lose her first tooth, never watch her graduate from the local school. Both had had something precious stolen from them.

"And on top of all of this," she sobbed, "I'm being told I'm a possible _Holocaust survivor?!_" Poor Joan couldn't wrap her mind around it. How was one supposed to react to _that_ revelation? Being a Holocaust survivor was the sort of thing one was expected to remember – but she had only been a young child at the time, and Joan couldn't tell what of her few recollections from that age was actual memory, and what was simply long-forgotten nightmares – or even entirely imagined. "But I don't remember… I don't know- _Who am I?! I don't even know who…_" Joan trailed off into unintelligible whimpers and sobs.

The Medic just hugged the Pyro and let her cry into his lab coat. "Zhere, it's alright… I understand. Let it out, it's okay." He suppressed the lump in his own throat – now wasn't the time for him to get worked up. He started humming quietly – the lullaby Sofia used to sing to Ophelia, the same song his music box played – and eventually Joan went quiet. A few minutes later the German used the corner of his lab coat to dry her tears. "Better now?" The Pyro nodded and let go, still sniffling a bit.

"Who am I?" she repeated, voice broken from crying.

"Why are you asking me?" the Medic answered. "Nobody knows zhat better zhan you, Joan. Who your parents were, where you come from, what you went zhrough – none of zhat defines who you are unless you let it. _You are who you choose to be._ No more. No less."

Joan was silent. Nothing would be the same anymore if she was the doctor's daughter, and she honestly didn't know how she felt about that. "I'm… afraid… to find out."

"I want to make somezhing very clear to you, Joan. Zhis test will give me peace of mind, zhat's all. It affects me more zhan you, unless you want it to. Because whezher you are a Gypsy by adoption, a Von Grünwaldt by blood, or anyzhing else, _nozhing_ and no-one can make you any less _yourself._"

"I would like you to be my father," the Pyro said. "You've been more like a father to me than my adoptive dad ever was. But… what if I'm not Ophelia? What if it's just a big coincidence?"

"Zhat would be… very disappointing," the Medic admitted. "But regardless, you've given me zhe opportunity to be a fazher figure to someone again. You've given me back somezhing I've been missing for a long time. And I promise, no matter what zhe outcome, I'm proud of you. Even if you are not Ophelia, you remind me of her so much… but you are also Joan. You are everyzhing I could ever have hoped my little girl would become."

Somehow, that made Joan feel a little better. She was appreciated for being herself, not for being someone else. Maybe this whole thing wouldn't turn her world so far upside down as she'd initially thought.

"Do you see zhat flower over zhere?" The Medic gestured toward a lone plant with long, blade-like leaves and a tall stalk lined on one side with pink, bell-shaped flowers, somehow managing to survive the harsh badlands climate. "Sofia used to grow zhose. She loved zhem."

"What is it?" Joan asked. She'd never seen that flower before, or anything like it.

"It has many names. Xiphium, gladiolus, sword lily, gladiator flower, corn lily… No matter what you call it, zhough, or even if scientists reclassify it, it is still itself. It will always be zhe flower of inner strengzh. It will always be zhe flower zhe ancient Romans used to zhrow to victorious gladiators. No amount of renaming or reclassifying can change zhat."

Joan nodded. "I understand. Just like the flower, I can't be defined with my name."

"Exactly," the German said. "You are, above all else, yourself. No matter who your parents are or were, I'm sure zhey would be proud to call you zheir daughter. I know I would."

"Thank you…"

"Are you feeling any better now?"

"Much better. Tired, but better." She'd worn herself out crying, but it had certainly been cathartic.

The doctor used the rock to help pull himself to his feet with a sigh. He was starting to get too old for sitting on the ground like that. "I'm glad to hear zhat." He glanced at the sky. "We should go back to zhe base soon. Walk back wizh me?" The Pyro nodded and stood up. _Now_ she was ready to go back.


	25. The Rusty Knight and the Dragoness

It had been a while since Scout had dreamed, but that night the visions came back. The first thing he gathered was that he was in a building made of stone. Scout looked around to the sides, then turned. Behind him was a massive wooden gate, the sort they used to bring battering rams to knock down. It was clearly not going to open for him. The boy continued to look around, staring up at the tall ceiling and at the stone walls lit with torches and hung with blue tapestries depicting ominous-looking black cats with wings.

The boy had neglected to look in front of him, though, and now that he did it was incredible what he had missed at first. A window up above a balcony on the back wall showed an evening-purple sky with a full moon casting its glow upon the world. The silver light poured in like a spotlight on the creature that lay in the center of the room; a dragoness with white scales that gleamed like coins. She was chained to the ground and there was evidence of quite a struggle – the stone was scorched and scored where flame and claw had struck, and there were bloodstains from the battle. Scout could only imagine the effort it must have taken to imprison such a mighty beast. Some of the panels joining the chains to the floor were beginning to come loose, while others remained firmly in place, though the iron loops where the chains attached were coming off the panels themselves. These shackles held chains over her back, preventing her from standing up or spreading her wings, and two additional chains wrapped around her tail and throat, where there were nasty marks from being squeezed by the chain when she tried to break free. One chain over the dragoness's back had broken and been hastily joined back together with a padlock.

The dragoness locked eyes with the Scout as he cautiously approached. It seemed like flames burned within her eyes, and he could not look away until she let him. She was massive; her head was as long as his lower arm, and her horns added the same length again. Her nostrils flared and thin plumes of smoke rose from them.

Scout nearly jumped out of his skin when the dragon spoke. "You are just as trapped as I am," she said. The boy opened his mouth to express his surprise that the beast could speak, but then he simply accepted it. Why _shouldn't_ a flying, fire-breathing reptile talk?

"Yeah, but I'm not chained down, at least," the Bostonian replied.

"They cannot hold us forever," the dragoness said. She shook her head like a dog climbing out of the water, rattling the chains. "Release my chains, and I can break the door down. We can free one another."

Scout nodded and looked at the bat in his hand – metal. Then he looked at the chains. The one holding her neck looked like it was about to break anyway. With a shout, he started bashing at the panel as hard as he could. The dragon hissed and lowered her head so the chains wouldn't choke her. Then, with a crack, the loop that connected chain and floor snapped off the panel, and the dragoness let out a mighty roar as she lifted her head and strained against the other shackles. These were tougher, and the Scout's bat looked like it had been in a car crash, it was so full of dents. Stone cracked as one iron panel started to come loose near the dragoness's tail, but the chains held strong no matter how hard he hit them.

"I don't know if we can do this. Maybe we should try something else?" Scout said, beginning to doubt that all the shackles could be broken with just his bat. Maybe they represented something that needed a different solution? Or was he missing something else? Either way, he stopped now to catch his breath and try to think of another approach.

"Hold still," someone commanded. The boy and the dragon both turned to look up at the balcony where a familiar figure stood, a crimson cloak around his shoulders, with the moon behind his head like a halo. The Scout was taken aback to see someone he knew in the dream, not in the form of a metaphor, but simply as himself. There was no need for him to guess this time; he easily recognized the Sniper. The Australian wore rusty greaves and pauldrons – armor that had not been polished in a very long time – but otherwise looked basically the same as he always did, though wielding a bow rather than a rifle. He drew an arrow from his quiver and took aim. He let the arrow fly, and it struck right into the keyhole of the padlock holding the chain together over the dragon's flank. The lock popped loose as easily as if the key had been turned in it.

The dragoness strained with all her might and the remaining chains snapped like threads. With a tremendous roar she got to her feet and spread her wings. The Sniper climbed over the rail of the balcony and jumped down to ground level, the cloak momentarily spreading out like wings as he fell. The dragoness lowered her head to look him in the eyes, and the Australian put his hand on the tip of the beast's snout.

"Now, let's get out of here," he said. The dragoness nodded once, and told them to stand back. Then, she charged at the door and threw herself, shoulder first, against it. The gate creaked and groaned as the wood buckled and splintered. Scout stumbled as the ground shook with the force of the impact. The dragoness slammed against the door a second time and it gave way. She picked herself up and shook her joints loose, breathing in the fresh air.

Scout looked around, suddenly realizing that this dream world somehow seemed very familiar. It was a grassy field with forests of golden-flowered trees in the distance, unlike any place he knew… but a river ran through the middle with a wooden bridge over it, and there were two castles of almost identical design facing each other, one on each side of the water. One flew a red flag, the other flew blue – that was the one they'd just come out of. The sun was low in the sky over the red castle, the sky lavender, the clouds highlighted in scarlet and gold, and over the blue castle the full moon shone just as it had through the window.

The Bostonian paused as he thought he heard something behind him. He turned, but didn't see anything. Even so, he felt like he was being watched. He didn't put any more thought to it as he was distracted by the dragoness taking flight. The grass waved in the wind from each flap of her wings as she climbed into the sky. She circled a few times, then let out a cry of distress and dove back toward her human companions; the Scout and the Sniper ducked in alarm. In an instant, something dark whooshed over the top of Scout's head from behind just as the Australian turned to see what had upset the dragon.

Everything happened at once; the thing that had come down from behind had thrown itself, claws-first, at the Sniper, but it had been intercepted by the dragon and the two creatures crashed against the wall of the castle behind them. Chunks of stone fell down with them as the creatures thudded to the ground. Wings flapped and roars echoed as the beasts snarled and clawed at each other, before taking to the sky again. Now Scout could see what the attacker was: a huge black panther with wings like a raven. It moved swiftly and gracefully but it was clearly a born killer, holding nothing back. How it had managed to go unnoticed was beyond him.

He turned his attention to the Sniper as the winged beasts circled and clashed above and flames leapt from the dragoness's maw. The Australian was bleeding from a nasty claw wound across his chest and upper arm, but that didn't stop him from taking aim. The pauldrons had protected his shoulders, and Scout could see where some of the rust had come off.

The airborne creatures stalled and hung in the sky above the river, talons embedded in one another's flesh, wings and limbs and tails tangled with each other as the panther sank his fangs into the dragon's neck, just before gravity started to drag them down again. She let out a strangled, pained squeal and flapped her wings uselessly as they started to tumble. It looked like things were over for the dragoness, but then an arrow struck home with a solid whack, piercing the panther's skull. Instantly the great cat went limp and plunged into the cold river, and the dragon tried to right herself, but only succeeded in slowing her fall as she crashed into the bridge.

The strong wood bent and nearly collapsed, but it held her weight long enough for her to lift off again. She teetered in the air before regaining her bearings, and circled above the river. Scout covered his ears as the bleeding dragoness let out a victory roar, and the blue castle's weakened structure started to give out. A tower collapsed, and chunks of stone fell into the grass below. The white dragon flew to the red castle's central tower and perched atop it, the sun behind her, making her a dark silhouette against the purple sky.

The Scout then woke, his head in a whirl. What an intense, confusing dream! And yet, he was sort of sad that it was over. Some symbols were obvious, some required work, but for once, it didn't seem like a chore to figure it out. In fact, he was _excited_ to decipher it, and immediately set to work.


	26. What a Piece of Work

Scout glanced at his clock. It was only 7:30 in the morning. The sun was up, but most of the team wouldn't be for another half hour or two. Teufort didn't start to become active until around 8:00. Then the young mercenary looked over at the calendar on his wall; it was Tuesday, May 9th. He'd marked it for some reason with red ink. Oh well, he'd look at it later. For now he just opened the drawer next to his bed, retrieved a pen and notebook, and scribbled down thoughts about his dream and details he'd likely forget. He had plenty of time to work on it.

The Scout wasn't the only merc who was up early that Tuesday morning – far from it. Mick was always an early riser; he didn't even need coffee to wake up – he preferred decaf anyway, and sort of needed to for his job; shaking hands wouldn't do him any good. But even he wasn't alone this morning, and he knew it. He was waiting for her, and sure enough, Joan was up too, fifteen minutes later. It was very still and quiet, like they were the only two people on the planet.

"Good morning, Joan," he greeted her quietly.

"Good morning, Mick…"

"Anxious about the test results?"

Joan nodded. "It's… just kind of scary. This could turn my world upside-down. On the other hand, it… could be really disappointing."

Mick just put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her. "No worries, Bluey." He offered a small but comforting smile.

Joan couldn't help but laugh a bit. "Bluey?" Her smile was apparently contagious, because the Sniper also started grinning.

"Aussie slang for a redhead. I know; makes no sense, right?" The Pyro just shook her head, still smiling. Well, that worked well; Mick had called her that specifically because he had a feeling a bit of classic Australian quirkiness would make her feel better.

The Sniper glanced at his watch. "You ready to go see if the results are in? Doc's been up since the crack of dawn working in his office. Should be done pretty soon."

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Do you want to talk to him alone, or would you prefer if I went with you?" Joan nodded silently at him and took hold of his sleeve. She didn't need words to communicate with Mick. "Right. Let's go, then."

* * *

The Medic had been up and working for several hours already, and hadn't gotten much sleep. There were shadows under his eyes and he was completely ignoring his doves, which were perched on the operating table lamp, some watching, some still sleeping. His office was cluttered, with books scattered around the room, notebooks with tables and charts and sheets of data scribbled in them lay open on the counter. Vials of blood, neatly labeled, sat in test tube racks or were still attached to machines.

The doctor sat down with a tired sigh, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Finally, he was done. Now he would just rest and think on it. It wasn't a conclusive answer, but it did help give him peace. He heard a knock at the door and put his glasses back on. The Medic straightened his lab coat and answered the door, offering a warm but weary welcome to the Pyro and Sniper. The German was admittedly a bit surprised to see the Australian – the results of the test were rather personal – but he didn't express it, both out of gratitude for the Sniper's inspiration and respect for Joan. He knew just how important Mick was in her life. Was it really anything but natural that she would want him to accompany her?

"Come in, please," he told them. To dispel the awkward quietness, he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really. I've been thinking about the test all night. Couldn't sleep…"

The Medic nodded. "I understand, Joan. Neizher could I."

"So how did it turn out?" the Pyro asked.

The Medic's expression was impossible to read. "Well, I started wizh a blood type test. I am type B, and Sofia was type O. I never had Ophelia's blood type tested, but it would have been B or possibly O. An A or AB type would immediately rule out zhe possibility – but you are type B, Joan."

"I don't understand much about blood types, Doc," the Sniper said, "but aren't there only four? Doesn't that just mean Joan had a fifty-fifty chance of having the 'right' blood type?"

The doctor shook his head. "Blood types are not distributed evenly, Herr Mundy. Only about ten percent of zhe population in Germany has type B blood. Of course, zhere's no way to prove Joan is from Germany at all, but from what I can tell, zhe distribution is about zhe same in America, so it's equally unlikely to appear zhere. It considerably narrows zhe group of people Joan and I belong to."

"What if I'm not from America either?" Joan asked.

The Medic just shrugged. If not Germany or America, they had absolutely no leads on where the Pyro had come from. "Zhen we're out of luck, I guess. I'm not sure of zhe distributions. I would _assume_ zhe percentages are similar in ozher regions."

There was a pause. "Well, what other tests did you run?" Joan asked, a bit disheartened.

The Medic frowned. "Well, zhe serology tests were inconclusive." Joan and Mick both let out disappointed sighs. They were expecting a no or a maybe, or even possibly the incredibly-unlikely yes – not a complete failure of the test. "You see, zhe zhings I was testing for were only discovered around zhe time you were born, Joan. Since Sofia…" he faltered for a moment. "Since Sofia died only five years later and was in good health, she never had zheze extra factors tested. So I don't know what her rhesus factor or any ozher blood traits were."

"And you need to compare to her as well for this test, I take it," the Pyro concluded. The doctor nodded and looked apologetic.

"You might be wondering why I bozhered, zhen. Well, I… do have a sample of Ophelia's hair. I tried to see if I could get any sort of serological data from zhe hair roots to compare wizh you, but it's just too old. Over twenty years of damage and contamination caused zhat test to fail completely."

"I'm sorry, Doc. That must have been really disappointing. And for you, Joan. I'm sorry," Mick said.

"Well, yes," the Medic admitted. He adjusted his glasses. "But… I _did_ run one more test. Very cutting-edge. New technology. Ah, it involves testing white blood cells for antigens – you see, zhat's an inherited zhing. Zhe latest research suggests zhat each person has two 'sets' of zhese leukocyte antigens, one from each parent…" He trailed off when he saw the blank stares he was getting. "Ah, well… in short, one of Joan's two sets should match one of mine if she is Ophelia."

Mick and Joan looked at each other. This really was cutting-edge! "So what's the catch?" Joan asked.

The German sighed. "Zhe catch is zhat zhis test is also less effective wizhout a sample from Sofia. Still, it does help narrow zhings down considerably. You do need to understand zhat even zhis new technology will not be able to conclusively prove anyzhing. Even wizh a sample from Sofia, it would only be _very strong_ evidence, not proof. But it, like zhe blood type test, could easily _disprove_ relation."

"Well, come on; what were the results?" the Sniper prompted. He could tell the suspense was getting to Joan, and he didn't like seeing her under that sort of unnecessary stress.

The Medic smiled. "Zhere was a match." The Pyro just put her hands over her mouth, overwhelmed. "Now zhis is not proof, like I said!" the doctor clarified quickly. "Maybe someday we'll have zhe technology to prove zhis one way or anozher, but for now…" He put his hands on Joan's shoulders. "Wizh zhe circumstantial evidence, zhe matched antigens, zhe compatible blood types, zhe similarities in appearance… I can't prove it, but I do zhink you are Ophelia." He hugged her and tried not to get too emotional. "After all zhese years… what are zhe odds?"

Joan let out a quiet whimper. Her voice, muffled in his lab coat, faltered as she said, "It's been a very long time since I've had someone to call family." The Medic just nodded.

"We can't prove anyzhing… but if you'd like, I can try to see about getting zhe paperwork to legally adopt you…" the German offered quietly.

"I'd love that… Dad." At these words, a tear rolled down the doctor's cheek.

"Well then what does it matter if you're related by blood?" the Sniper asked. "If you're family at heart, what difference does blood make?" The Medic looked at him with a troubled expression, and he continued, "I understand you want to know if your daughter survived, Doc, and only blood can help you find her. But if there wasn't a very compelling argument for her survival standing right in front of me, I wouldn't believe she could have lived through the war at all. She's here, or she's dead, and that's the end of that."

"No," Joan said, stepping away from the Medic. "Ophelia is dead. She died in Dachau. Maybe only metaphorically, maybe literally. But she's dead. Now there's just me…"


	27. Annoyance

By eight-thirty, the whole team was up, though some were still in the process of mentally waking up. The Sniper figured this was probably a good time for him to call home, since it had been a while and if he waited much longer it would be some ungodly hour of the morning in Australia. It was midnight at home already, so his mother would be going to bed soon. His father was probably asleep already, so that was good – he wouldn't have to take that verbal abuse today.

Mick leaned against the payphone outside the base, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end. After a moment, his mother answered.

"Hi, Mum. It's Mick. Sorry I'm calling so late – there was something going on this morning." He paused and listened. "Well enough I guess. Kinda stuck in a stalemate lately. Still getting paid, though, so that's good." Another pause. "Well, uh, it's kind of complicated but basically Joan had to go in for a lot of blood tests- no, not John; Joan, like 'Joan of Arc'. Right, yeah, I guess I haven't mentioned her. She's our, uh, Pyrotechnician." He sighed. "No, Mum. She's not an arsonist… Yeah… Yeah, that's-"

Suddenly the Sniper's tone turned to exasperated annoyance. "What? _No,_ I'm _not_ dating her!" Looking indignant, he begrudgingly let his mother speak without interruption. As soon as he could get a word in, he said, "No! Look, is it so-" He stopped immediately when she told him she wasn't finished. He rolled his eyes and pulled his hat down over his eyes, waiting for his mother to stop talking. Finally, he could answer. "Well, because she's my best mate, that's why! Is there something wrong with me havin' a good friend who just happens to be a sheila?" He paused. "No, I am not. And I don't see why it matters."

Oh no, there she went again. Slouching against the payphone, Mick took his glasses off and put his wrist against his forehead, silently shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know you do Mum. I know. But that's not what _I_ want to do with my life, and it's my decision to make!" He sighed as his mother continued her lecture. "First of all, I'm not. Second, even if I was, I wouldn't-" He stopped as he was interrupted yet again, and calmly put his glasses back on. He didn't know why he put up with this. "I'm 'so sure' because it's just not in me, Mum! Besides, none of this matters because I don't even know if she-"

He sputtered. "'_Just ask_'?! You have got to be joking! I'm not going to ask her that! First of all, that could go wrong in about a million ways, and even if it didn't, my colleagues would _never_ let me hear the end of it!" He gritted his teeth as he listened patiently to his mother, but then he snapped and interrupted her. "She's not a maniac! We _pay_ her to do this, Mum! It's her _job_ to burn things! And it _is_ a perfectly legitimate job, even if you and Dad disagree!" His face suddenly went pale. "_No, __don't__ tell Dad!_ He'll never shut up about it!" He glanced over at the base. "Look, Mum, I have to go. Just forget I ever brought any of this up, alright?" He sighed. "Yeah… You too, Mum. Good night." He hung up and put his forehead against the side of the payphone with a dull thud. Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered.

* * *

"All finished," the BLU Engineer said proudly, looking at his well-hidden handiwork.

"Excellent," the Spy replied, smirking. "Gentlemen, Teufort will belong to us soon enough. Be ready. When they step into our trap, we'll need to strike quickly. It's the only way, at this point."

"Now we just have to set the bait. They're already prob'ly set to attack pretty soon, anyway," the Engineer said.

* * *

"Sorry about the delay; what did I miss?" the Australian asked, as he joined his fellow REDs around a tactical map.

"Not much; we've just determined how we should attack from multiple angles," the Engineer informed him. "Soldier and Scout are gonna go in through here." He pointed to the map.

"They'll probably be expecting the brunt of the attack through the main door," the Spy said. "I suggest Heavy and Medic go through there, since the two of them together can withstand quite a bit of force."

"I could cover for 'em from down here," the Sniper offered, pointing at the front entrance of the RED base on the map. "My counterpart will probably be expecting me to be on the balcony – but down here, I'll have the bridge to hide behind."

The Medic raised an eyebrow. "Isn't zhat a bit dangerous, Herr Mundy? You're very open to attack at zhe main door."

"I'll put up a sentry. That'll do just fine," the Engineer said.

"Any suggestions for what I should do?" the Pyro asked.

The Soldier hesitated, as though honestly weighing his options and considering his words, before speaking up. "You can go make me a sandwich."

Without a word, the Heavy rose from his seat, strode over to the shelf his lunchbox was on, opened it, and retrieved a ham sandwich. He returned to the map table, and held the sandwich out to the Soldier. The American seemed quite surprised, but reached out to take it – the Heavy snatched it away, sat down, and very deliberately took a huge bite out of it. He chewed slowly, glaring at the Soldier the whole time, swallowed, and then said, "No sandvich for you. Soldier does not deserve sandvich." The Soldier simply tapped his fingertips together and didn't say another word.

_Good,_ Joan thought, _he's learning._ She decided to simply ignore the statement and continue on. "Well, since there haven't been any suggestions, I think I'll go in through their sewer. Hopefully I can pin any defence force they have left between myself and the Heavy – not a good place to be, if you're BLU." There was a general murmur of approval, though the Scout was conspicuously silent.

"You're oddly quiet today, lad," the Demoman commented, looking at him.

The boy just shrugged. "Does anybody else have a bad feeling about this attack?" It was probably best for their morale that most of the team was unaware of the Scout's oracular abilities, or his ominous gut feelings would have been cause for much more concern.

The Spy shrugged. "I do have a feeling they're up to something. They've been suspiciously inactive for a while. But we can't afford to keep a cold standoff running any longer. We're not being paid to glare at each other. The Administrator will have our hides if we don't start fighting soon."

"Yeah, I know, I just…" Scout trailed off. Suddenly, they heard a pistol shot, and the whole team went alert – but nobody had been hit. A moment later, Scout found the source of the sound. "Aw, it's just a magpie." Indeed, there was a solitary magpie hopping around near the hayloft-balcony door. Apparently it had heard the sound of gunfire so frequently that it had started mimicking the noise. The magpie stood at the threshold of the doorway, looked directly at the Sniper, cocked its head, and made another pistol shot sound.

"Stupid bird," the Sniper muttered, as the creature flew away.


	28. As Trapped As I Am

_Author's Note: Yes, I'm aware that a single Engineer can't have multiple sentries up at once. It's called Gameplay and Story Segregation: I'm bending the rules of the game slightly for the sake of the narrative. Just roll with it._

The RED team could not delay any longer. Now, it was time to fight. BLU was weakened, so it was only a matter of time before they would have their victory. The Medic and Heavy were the first to attack, charging in at the front gate. The Medic glanced down at the meter on his medigun.

"Eighty-five percent, kamerade!" he told the Heavy just as they entered the building. The Heavy spun up his minigun and prepared to dole out pain. He was lucky to be who he was, because the ambush set up there would have been incredibly dangerous to anyone else; electric sparking filled the air as the BLU Medic activated his own ubercharge on his team's Scout. He was not the best partner, but the others had been killed off, and even the Scout was very dangerous when invulnerable. Both combatants let out battle shouts as the Heavy simply tried to stall through the Scout's onslaught – it couldn't last forever!

Meanwhile, the Scout's counterpart on RED accompanied the Soldier up onto the BLU balcony, leaping from the roof over the bridge, while the Soldier simply rocketed up. The boy glanced toward the BLU bunker – the doors were open and nobody was inside. In fact the BLU Sniper was nowhere to be seen. That made him nervous.

"Let's move, city boy!" the Soldier urged him. Scout bit his lip, but did as he was told, darting in front of the slower Soldier.

At the same time, Joan was climbing up into the BLU waterpipe. She stopped to catch her breath just inside. It was _hard_ to swim and keep the flamethrower reasonably dry at the same time. Water really was anathema to her fighting style; it put her, quite literally, out of her element.

In the depths of the BLU base, the Spy watched video screens carefully, tense like a panther ready to pounce, analyzing what he saw. Pyro, Medic, Heavy, Scout… possibly the Soldier depending on his movement. That was a good portion of the team to split off, yes. He pushed the hastily-wired button the Engineer had set up.

The RED Sniper, sights lined up on the BLU Medic's head, waited for the ubercharge to wear off. The moment it came down, the enemy doctor would be blown sky-high. There was no way in hell the Australian could have expected what he saw instead. A steel gate crashed down behind his teammates – no, it was more like the portcullis of a medieval castle; a grid of strong metal bars welded together, with spikes at the bottom that dug deep into the ground. How on earth had the BLUs managed to install that without being noticed? And what should he do? Stay, or leave his position to call for a retreat? After only a moment's hesitation, he turned and ran.

The Soldier had jumped back in shock. Another gate had slammed shut in front of him, missing him by mere inches. Then he frowned. "These maggots think they can stop me with their pretty picket fences? Bah!" He aimed his rocket launcher.

"What?! _No! Don't fire a rocket! I'm standing right here man!_" Scout yelped from the other side of the bars. "Look, this is a trap of some sort; get outta here!" The Soldier opened his mouth to protest. "Just _go!_ I'm totally okay on my own, but I don't- we shouldn't try to knock the gate down! We don't know what's going on, that's probably what they want us to do, right? So don't do it!" He wasn't even really sure what he was saying. The words were simply coming out. The real reason, in his mind, was that he had a flashback to his dream and was suddenly overcome with understanding. He felt that this was _meant_ to happen. He was supposed to be trapped. Everything fell into place; the dream made sense. He _knew_ what he was supposed to do. "_Go!_" he insisted.

The sound of the gate slamming shut in the sewer echoed, hurting Joan's ears. It took her a moment to realize what had just happened, but when she did, she gritted her teeth and let out a quiet growl, alternating between feelings of fear and anger. "Oh, that was a bad idea," she grumbled, referring to both her own actions and those of her enemies. Now they were trapped together; she wasn't sure who would be worse off for that, but she did know that it could only result in carnage.

The Medic frantically hit the ubercharge the moment it became active. "_Raus, raus!_" Being pinned between a gate and any enemy with an ubercharge of his own was a horrible situation to be in. He had never before been so thankful for the device he'd created – it was literally buying them time. He backed up against the wall, letting the Heavy take over the decisions from there. It was a close choice: wait out the enemies' charge and kill them, but remain trapped, or escape, and let them live? The Russian made his choice. With a shout, he turned and charged at the gate with all his might, holding absolutely nothing back – nothing could hurt him. It was his weight versus the strength of the gate's welds. It creaked and bent, and the Medic shuddered at the screech of metal deforming and scraping against the doorway. The Heavy charged again and the gate broke down. The two RED mercenaries retreated out the gate and turned to fight against their attackers – the uber would flicker out on the BLUs any moment now. Instead, the BLU mercs turned and ran.

The BLU Spy cursed from where he was watching the screens. RED had _already_ broken the trap and ruined the plan. "Engineer – get a sentry up there! The toughest sentry you can throw together! We might still be able to salvage this."

"But, the metal-"

"I don't care! Dismantle a dispenser if you have to!" he snapped.

Bells went off that could be heard all the way across the battlefield, as the RED Sniper set off the alarm to call his team back to the base. They needed to regroup; they couldn't afford to be shaken and scattered like this. Seconds and minutes ticked by like hours and the scattered mercenaries regrouped in the main hallway of the RED base.

"Where is Joan?" the Medic asked, panic in his eyes.

"Ah, piss; I think she's still inside," Mick replied. "She has to be." He didn't dare imagine the alternative. He _couldn't._ She was too strong. He _knew_ she was still alive – the question was how long that would last.

"Scout is missing too," the Spy observed.

"He got caught behind one of the gates," the Soldier said. "I tried to blast it down but he told me not to. Demanded I make a tactical retreat."

The Sniper let out a frustrated sigh and put his hand against his forehead. He did _not_ need this. _Give 'em hell, Joan. Just hang in there – I know you can._


	29. Professionals Have a Plan

_"Put the army in the face of death where there is no escape and they will not flee or be afraid - there is nothing they cannot achieve."_ – Sun Tzu

The Pyro threw herself against the gate several times, but it wouldn't budge. She let out a frustrated growl and turned. There was no way back out but through the BLU base. She had no other choice. She stormed through the sewer, axe in hand. Only a fool would fight her down here, where she was cornered and had no other option but to fight for her life.

As it turned out, the BLU Scout was a fool. He thought she'd be easy prey in the damp tunnel, but with the twisty passage ensuring he couldn't get a clear shot at her with his scattergun, he had to run more than attack, or risk being chopped apart. She snarled like a dragon as she swung at him – normally a scattergun would give her pause, but retreat was not an option. The two splashed through the watery tunnel as the Pyro relentlessly pursued her foe. She turned a corner and swung blindly – the axe connected and blood spattered across the wall. The Scout let out a yelp, turned, and hightailed it like a beaten dog.

* * *

"Now see, this is why women shouldn't fight!" the Soldier said. The Sniper just took a deep breath and kept his fists clenched, trying to stay calm, professional, and level-headed – and resist the urge to punch the Soldier in the face.

The Engineer frowned. "While I do agree it ain't really proper for a lady to be out fightin', we can't really blame this on her gender. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time – just like the Scout. Just as easily could'a been any one of us, I reckon."

"Never mind all zhat! We have to go back for her!" the Medic said. He turned to leave, but the Sniper grabbed his lab coat.

"Now wait just a minute, Doc! We can't just charge blindly in there like rabid dingos, we-"

"_Verdammt! Sie ist meine Tochter, Mundy! Ich werde sie nicht verlassen, um zu sterben!_" He yanked his coat away, seemingly unaware that he'd lapsed back into his native language. "You don't even care!" The German wasn't thinking clearly; his worry was making him irrational.

"What?!" The Australian was taken aback by this accusation.

"All you care about are your damn professional standards! You don't care what happens to her as long as you look professional!"

Mick finally snapped. "Oh, is that really what you think?! Sure, that's what I've tried to tell you all this time!" He gestured to himself. "Michael Mundy: Cold, Heartless Sniper! Totally professional, no feelin's at all! Well I guess I did a bloody good job of convincin' you – hell, I believed it too! But you know what, mate? I _do have feelings – _I admit it! I _do_ care! I care about this team, I care about you blokes, and _I care about __her__!_ And god damn it, I'm _going_ to get her out of there – and Scout too, if he hasn't got himself _killed_ yet. But we have to have a _plan._ Lucky for us, I think I've got one."

* * *

There, the main entrance was just ahead! Joan turned the corner, gasped, and backpedaled wildly. The sentry gun beeped and swiveled but the Pyro was already out of the way. That certainly put a dent in her plans. No matter. She could dart into the L-hall and get across to the courtyard without stepping into the sentry's line of fire. From there she could go up and out through the balcony door. Hopefully the BLU Sniper wasn't up there. If he was… well, she'd just have to kill him.

* * *

Mick dropped his rifle off in the bunker. It would be of little use in close combat. He didn't have too many weapons that would be useful in close combat, in fact – that simply wasn't in his job description. But he did have some. Professionals had to plan for every situation, and he'd bought some weapons with that in mind. His kukri was a given, and he considered the submachine gun, but no, he wasn't particularly good with it and it chewed through ammo like crazy. Still, he had other options. He looked over the crates – most were rifles, but then his eyes settled on a box with a burnt label: '_HUNTSMAN, product of Mann Co_.'

* * *

Scout stepped into the trapdoor room. It wasn't technically a trapdoor – more just a hole in the grated floor. Immediately he stepped back, pressing himself against the doorframe and cursing. Just below the opening was another damned sentry – the same one that Joan was avoiding. The boy couldn't go that way, or the sentry would shoot him to bits. No matter. This was meant to happen; he could feel it in his bones. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't supposed to break himself out. The 'dragoness' and the Sniper would be his salvation, he just had to find them.

* * *

A rocket easily took out the sentry at the entrance. "Nothing manlier than rescuing damsels in distress, eh, Robin Hood?" the Soldier said, smirking sideways at his teammate.

"We're not here to rescue her, mate – we're her bloody reinforcements," the Sniper growled, wondering why he'd allowed the Soldier to come with him and the Medic at all. He couldn't very well turn down extra firepower, but he regretted it anyway.

The three RED mercenaries entered the enemy base cautiously. They were ready to fight back, but never to retreat.

"I failed as a fazher once before. I will not fail a second time," the Medic said quietly. "I couldn't bear to lose her again. I'd sooner die!"

"I know mate. Neither could I. Much as I hate to admit it, I couldn't live without her anymore," the Sniper replied under his breath.

"This way!" the Soldier said, pointing to the way down to the intelligence. The Sniper just shook his head. "If you're holding a woman hostage, you're going to keep her where you can keep an eye on her, right? So she's down here."

Mick smiled. "There's one flaw in your reasoning, mate. You're assuming Pyro's a helpless hostage. She's not bound and gagged, I can tell you that much. If anything, they're fighting to keep her away from the intelligence."

* * *

Joan did not try to avoid the BLU Medic. He was alone in the courtyard and it would probably come down to a fight away, so there was no point in trying to avoid conflict. The best course of action was to charge straight in before he could react. The Pyro ran forward and unleashed flames. The Medic ducked down and darted to the side. His sleeve caught fire as the flames licked painfully over his arm and shoulder, and he desperately tried to pat out the flames as he darted toward the staircase. He tried to run up sideways while firing his syringe gun at the girl, and ended up stumbling, tripping over the stairs in his panicked attempt to escape. He knew he stood no chance against her if she caught him in the flames. He just hoped his needles could pierce through the thick flamesuit.

He let out a yelp of alarm and pain as he ran right into the Scout. He took a painful blow from the boy's baseball bat but ignored the attack to make a dash for the supply room. It was officially off-limits to the enemy team and the intelligence alike for reasons unknown, but he'd be safe there. He wasn't about to throw away his life trying to fend off the Pyro and Scout.

The teen cursed as the Medic escaped. Oh well, he couldn't worry about that right now. "Yo, Pyro!" he called out, from the upper level.

"Scout! You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Is there any way out up there?" she asked, picking the syringes out of her firesuit.

"Nah, it's all blocked off. I haven't found any way out yet."

A third voice joined in from the bottom doorway, just under where the Scout was standing. "Haven't ya? Well, we have. Actually, we sort of made it on the way in, but that's technicalities." The Sniper stepped out into the middle of the courtyard, grinning. He didn't let on just how relieved he was to see Joan, but she certainly didn't hold back on expressing her joy at seeing him.

The Pyro ran over and threw her arms around him. "Mick! You… Were you coming in to look for us?!"

He blinked in surprise at the hug, just standing there very stiffly, unsure how to react. "Of course," he replied. "Uh, glad to see you too, mate…" Joan laughed quietly and nestled her face into his jacket, arms still wrapped firmly around him.

"_Thank you…_" she whispered into his chest. She felt him relax a bit at her words.

A smile crept across his face – he couldn't help it. _Ah, hell. Why not? _After a moment's pause, he hugged her tightly. "That's what friends are for," he whispered.


	30. Snow White and the Huntsman

Perfect. A shot like this only presented itself once in a blue moon, certainly. It was only by the combination of several factors that this opportunity even came up. She was the shortest member of her team, and he was the tallest, but they were down in the courtyard, and standing at just the right angle as they hugged that their heads lined up perfectly.

The BLU Sniper narrowed his eyes. He had a score to settle with each of them, and no sympathy for their moment of affection and sentimentality. In fact, it disgusted him. How could his counterpart even call himself a professional sniper when he made such blatant displays of these kinds of useless emotions? Oh well. He'd be putting an end to that too.

Or he would have, if the Scout hadn't seen the gleam of a scope on the other side of the balcony, at the door that went down into the intelligence room. "_Look out!_" he shouted, as adrenaline kicked in; he jumped down from the balcony and used his full body weight to tackle his two teammates. Mick reacted with lightning reflexes to regain his balance and spring backwards a couple steps while Scout and Joan tumbled to the ground and then leapt to their feet. During this chaos a gunshot rang out. Joan turned as she heard the Medic cry out in pain and surprise.

Once again the BLU Sniper had missed his carefully aimed shot and was now at the disadvantage. He reloaded as quickly as he could – now time was of the essence! His counterpart already had an arrow out of the quiver and nocked on the bow; the BLU mercenary predicted his RED adversary's shot and dodged to the other side of the narrow stair-shed he was in not a moment too soon; the arrow embedded itself in the wall to his left. He rushed to gun the RED Sniper down, lifting his rifle and taking only a fraction of a second to line him up in his sights as Mick nocked a second arrow!

In the blink of an eye, it was over; a sharpshooter met his match and slumped to the floor, sunglasses shattered by the projectile that had killed him in an instant – and a rifle clunked against the ground, an arrow lodged through the broken scope and into the eye of its slain wielder.

Mick lowered his bow. "Nice try, mate, but _I'm_ the best." He looked back at his teammates. "Is everyone alright?" He assessed the damage. The bullet intended to kill him and Joan had instead hit the Medic in the leg, and the Pyro helped support the German as he limped over to a corner to sit down. The Soldier rushed into the courtyard from his place behind the Medic and scanned the area for further threats, rocket launcher at the ready.

"Perimeter appears to be secure," he said. "Good work, boys."

"How bad's the wound?" Joan asked the doctor, ignoring the Soldier for now.

"No broken bones," he assured her immediately. He examined the damage to his leg through the gash torn in his clothing. "Femoral artery and vein intact. It appears to be mostly…" He tried to move his leg and cringed in pain. "… Muscle damage." He bit his lip and hesitated for a moment before turning his medigun on himself. "I don't like to do zhis…" he muttered, activating the gun to heal his own wounds.

"Well, now that we've taken care of that and rescued our damsel in distress, let's move on to the secondary objective: recover the enemy intelligence!" the Soldier said. The rest of the REDs just glared at him. "What?"

"Just shut your gob," Mick told him, as he walked across the courtyard toward the stairs. Suddenly he noticed that things were going rather dark; he stopped, wondering if he'd been hit and somehow hadn't noticed. No, this was not the darkness that came before passing out – he looked up. The sky itself was definitely getting darker.

_Now_ the Scout remembered what was significant about this day. "Oh man, I totally forgot about this! I even marked the eclipse on my frickin' calendar!" He smacked his own forehead. Oh well, things had gotten pretty out of hand and this way far more important than sitting around and watching the moon and sun line up.

"Well, that's convenient," the Sniper muttered. BLU would probably be at least a bit distracted by the eclipse, if they were aware of it. Maybe that would come in handy. "Let's hurry."

The mercenaries descended the staircase into the cool, industrial environment of the BLU basement. The Scout led the way from that point, since he knew exactly where the sentry was hidden. He was so busy watching for enemies that he didn't watch his step. Joan stopped him by grabbing his courier bag.

"Bomb trap," she said. Her flamethrower's powerful airblast could overcome the adhesives that stuck it to the wall or floor and send it flying a safe distance away. She used this to clear a path for her allies. The sticky bombs were far less dangerous since the BLU Demoman was dead, but they could still go off, especially if someone stepped on one.

Once Joan had made a safe path past the bombs, Scout cautiously led the team to the intelligence room and pointed to the left, indicating a point right around the corner. "It's right there," he said quietly. "In the back corner."

The Pyro looked to the Medic and opened her mouth to speak, but the Soldier shoved her aside unexpectedly. "Stand back, cupcake. I've got a sentry to neutralize." Before anyone could protest, he sidestepped into the intelligence room, fired a rocket, and stepped back into the hallway to take cover before the sentry could track his location. He moved to step out again, but found himself shoved against the wall and he heard a loud clang behind him.

Naturally he pulled away from the source of the sound and turned – Joan was standing in front of him, flamethrower raised high to parry a blow, using the strong pipe to block the BLU Engineer's wrench! The clever Texan would have blindsided him if the Pyro hadn't intervened!

Joan kicked the Engineer in the gut to force him back. "_Use the ubercharge now, Dad!_" she urged. It pressed her for time, she knew, but she had no choice. The Engineer could shoot at her and her allies with his shotgun, safe under the cover fire of his sentry, unless she could charge out into the room – there was no other option!

The Medic sprang into action, ignoring the shocked reactions of the Scout and the Soldier. "_Jawohl, mein Taube! Schnell!_" He locked the beam onto Joan and activated the invulnerability. The Pyro wasted no time bearing down on the Engineer like a dragoness upon helpless livestock, flames leading the way. A hail of bullets flew around the two RED mercs and bounced harmlessly off of them as they pursued the burning, fleeing BLU. No sooner had the man collapsed in a smoking, flaming heap than Joan switched targets; there was no time to waste! She dropped her flamethrower and readied her fire axe. The Pyro snarled as she hacked the sentry to bits in a battle fury. The turrets came off, the rocket launcher clattered to the floor, the ammunition spilled out and the ubercharge sputtered and faded. The Pyro then literally hacked her way into the code-protected drawers where the intelligence briefcase was sure to be hidden. Sure enough, there it was. She picked it up, ignoring the alarms going off around her, retrieved her flamethrower, and handed the briefcase to the Scout.

"Pyro!" the Soldier snapped. Joan frowned at him. What was he going to complain about now? He hesitated and scratched the back of his head. "Err… Thanks. You're no ordinary woman."

"She's no ordinary _anything,_ mate. She's the _Pyro,_" the Sniper commented.


	31. Sun and Moon

The RED mercenaries emerged from their enemies' base. It felt like a long time, but they hadn't been in there very long at all. Things had simply happened very quickly. The eclipse wasn't over yet; in fact it was still very dark.

The fighting wasn't over yet, either, though they didn't know it. Two pistol shots rang out without warning, and Mick stumbled back a step and fell sideways against the wall, clutching at his chest. Blood trickled down over his fingers as he gasped and coughed. The rest of the team stood by in shock and fear.

The BLU Spy had used the darkness against them. They hadn't even seen him sitting there on the railing of the bridge; in the shadows of the eclipse his thin frame simply blended in with the wooden pillars lining the structure. He calmly – though quickly – got down from his perch and fired at the Australian again, only to have the bullet intercepted.

Joan gasped in pain but didn't let the bullet stop her. If it came down to Mick's life or hers, she was perfectly willing to make that sacrifice for him. She didn't even notice the sound of the medigun locking onto a target behind her, she was completely focused on the Spy, who was backpedaling furiously. In his panic he emptied his revolver into her in a rapid succession of shots, as he tried to gun the enraged Pyro down before she could get close enough to set him alight. He could feel the heat of the flames as she closed the gap! He pulled the trigger two more times in his rapid-fire panic before he realized he was out of bullets; the Pyro collapsed anyway and for a moment, the Spy thought he was the luckiest man alive. He turned to hightail it; there was no time for reloading.

The world was already dark, but for Joan it was getting darker still, even as the eclipse approached its end. The Scout and Soldier opened fire on the Spy, but the shots sounded distant. The backstabbing coward did something with his wrist watch as he started to run, trying to activate his cloak to get away. No, that couldn't happen! With all of her remaining strength, the Pyro raised her flare gun and launched a single flare at the quickly vanishing Spy. Then she dropped the flare gun and let her hand fall to the ground.

She heard a distant voice, vaguely familiar… What was it saying? "_Joan! Hang in zhere!_" She heard rushed footsteps approaching her, but they didn't really register, nor did the humming of a machine.

Mick was back in action, and Joan's last desperate attack had lit his target up like a neon sign. The flames licked over the invisible Spy's body brightly in the eclipse's rapidly fading darkness as the Frenchman made a mad dash toward the water. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion for the Australian. He appeared to be entirely calm, perhaps even serene. There was no expression on his face, and his hands were perfectly steady as he pulled an arrow from his quiver.

This was a man who had always claimed, even to himself, that he had no emotions, yet he expressed them clearly and openly, if unintentionally. Now, he recognized that he was in a state of utter emotional overload, experiencing a thousand feelings at once – yet he showed none of them. With perfect stoicism he pulled the bowstring back; he tracked his target's movement even as its visibility faded. Then, glaring coldly at his foe as though the sheer force of his anger and hatred could guide the arrow home, he released the string.

The world snapped out of slow motion; the arrow pierced the Spy's skull dead-center and the invisibility flickered out as the corpse dropped limply into the water, and light returned to the sky. Mick dropped his bow and ran to the bridge. The Medic was kneeling next to the bloodied Pyro, the medigun trembling in his shaking hands, its beam fixed on the girl, who was just beginning to weakly stir.

The Sniper dropped to his knees by Joan's side as she shakily tried to pick herself up and nearly collapsed sideways. The only thing that stopped her was that Mick swept her into his arms and clutched her to his chest. "Oh my God! I thought we'd lost you!"

The Medic let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Don't _ever_ scare me like zhat again!" he told the girl. She smiled apologetically at him over her shoulder.

"What were you thinking?" Mick demanded. "You could have died!"

"I would have died for you," Joan replied. The Sniper was absolutely speechless. "You would have done the same for me," the Pyro said. "That's what friends-"

"-are for; I know, mate. I know." He hugged her tightly. "_Thank you._"

Joan suddenly felt a drop of something wet in her hair. It couldn't be rain – she was under the roof of the bridge. Then, it hit her. "Mick…? Are you… crying?"

The Sniper cleared his throat and stopped hugging the Pyro. "Nah. I just… got some dust in my eye," he said, looking away. Sure enough, there was a wet streak down one cheek where a tear had escaped before he'd managed to get his emotions in check. Joan smiled – he'd shed a tear for her. No matter what he said, she knew it had been for her.

Suddenly the Sniper turned and pointed accusingly at the Scout. "_Shut yer gob before I shut it for ya!_" he shouted.

"I didn't say anything, man!" the teen said, grinning as broadly as was physically possible.

"You were going to!"

"No I wasn't," the Scout said, mentally polishing his imaginary halo. The Sniper just grumbled as he got to his feet and dusted himself off. The Medic helped Joan up and hugged her.

The Scout crossed the bridge and waved his team forward, holding the intelligence under one arm. "Come on, come on! We're this close to winning! Hurry up!"

The RED mercenaries returned to their base in victory, still shaking from the adrenaline of that last encounter.

Mick put his hand on Joan's shoulder. "Is something wrong, mate?"

"I'm sorry you had to come rescue me like that. It's my fault we almost got killed."

"Yeah well, if that's your fault, it's Scout's fault too. And it's _also_ your 'fault' we got the enemy intelligence. And it's your 'fault' Scout didn't blow himself up on sticky bombs. And it's your 'fault' Soldier didn't get his brains knocked out with a wrench. And it's your 'fault' the enemy sentry didn't shoot us to bits. Not to mention, it's your 'fault' I'm still alive – several times over in fact." This seemed to console Joan. She smiled at him as they arrived in their intelligence room to deposit the enemy briefcase.

The Medic hugged the Pyro again. "Joan. I can't tell you how proud I am of you. You have no idea. Your mozher… would be just as proud."

"Hey don't forget – she wasn't the only one who did this thing! Shouldn't we all be proud of _ourselves_ too?" Scout said. "I mean I dunno about you, but _I_ did some pretty awesome stuff." He looked proud of himself, as usual.

"Of course you should," Joan said. "After all, we're all _still alive._ Isn't that something?"

Scout shrugged. "Yeah that's not really surprising. BLU kinda had a 'Every Man for Himself' attitude, you know? Standing alone like that, it's no wonder they got picked off one by one, right? But we were stronger than that, 'cause we worked as a team and we were all willing to take risks to help each other. I don't think they really saw that comin' most of the time, and it helped spread out the damage."

"An army is only as strong as its weakest link," the Soldier said. Everyone turned to look at him, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. After a moment, he saluted the Pyro. She grinned and happily returned the gesture.

"Well, looks like we've got some time off now. BLU's gonna need to hire new mercenaries." Mick smiled at the Pyro. "Course, we're gonna stick together, anyway. We're not just a bunch of mercs anymore, Joan. We're like a family – and you're part of it. And if we're family at heart, what does anything else matter?" The Pyro nodded, and hugged him again.

For once, possibly the first time in her life, Joan felt truly accepted.

She felt _at home._

**The End.**


End file.
